


Hurry Back

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Break Up, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Feather exchange as a token, Gen, Good Omens Big Bang, Heavy Angst, I'm Bad At Tagging, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Threats of Violence, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:09:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22333168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: The world didn't end and has continued not ending for almost 2 years now. Crowley thinks he might finally know what true happiness feels like and it feels like a quiet life shared with Aziraphale.He's still dogged by anxiety and disbelief that he's allowed to have this, but Aziraphale is helping, giving him a feather to wear in his own wing. Until a message from Heaven convinces Crowley that his influence has pushed Aziraphale to the brink of Falling. Remembering all too clearly the trauma of his own Fall, Crowley does the only thing he can: he leaves.The ripples of his decision spread further than he had anticipated. Unbeknownst to either immortal, their human friends are determined to get to the bottom of Crowley's sudden decision to abandon his home and his love.Written and illustrated for the Good Omens Big Bang. Art by Dovahcourts
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Adam Young (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley & Adam Young (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Adam Young (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device
Comments: 199
Kudos: 347
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner





	1. I been getting used to waking up with you

**Author's Note:**

> All art is by the incredible [Dovahcourts](https://dovahcourts.tumblr.com/).
> 
> My unending gratitude to my beta reading team:  
> [Pearl09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearl09)  
> [Insominia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/insominia)  
> [Eris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarrowkings/pseuds/Eris)  
> [Bucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky)  
> Thank you so much for the help, the screaming, the encouragement!
> 
> Thank you as well to WyvenQuill, EdnaV, Hemera, Caedmon, D20Owlbear, Sosobriquet, and every other friend I've made as a result of this event. You all mean so much to me.

Things were _finally_ starting to feel right for Crowley. It had taken longer than he would have liked to settle into this new phase of life but, now that he was there, he was thrilled. He no longer started at every sudden sound, he could let Aziraphale be out of his sight without dissolving into a panic, and he had made great progress on whipping the garden into shape. In his more reflective moments, Crowley could even imagine that this was what contentment felt like.

It had been a little under two years since the apocalypse had been averted. Some days it felt like it had been a thousand years ago, others it felt as though Crowley was still there, facing down Satan himself with nothing more than an angel, a child and a tire iron. Aziraphale had assured him that this was all normal for processing traumatic events; he was well-read on every subject, it seemed. Crowley had found the first six months especially difficult, refusing to leave Aziraphale’s side for fear of divine retribution. It was the longest that he had stayed awake since he’d taken physical form. Aziraphale had offered to start sleeping more if it would mean that Crowley could rest but that had been met with flat refusal; if they were both asleep, they were both vulnerable.

The pair shared similar anxieties about the safety of the boy, Adam. Although they needn’t have worried at all; Adam still had Dog and Dog remembered enough of how to be a hellhound to look out for both of them. There had been numerous visits to Lower Tadfield all the same. Arthur and Deirdre Young had been bemused at the sudden presence of two peculiar men in their son’s life but you don’t get to be parents to the Antichrist without learning to accept some irregularities.

It had been Aziraphale who first mentioned the idea of moving out of London. Once he was convinced that Aziraphale wasn’t going to miss his bookshop, Crowley had agreed with enthusiasm. Lower Tadfield and, indeed, the whole of Oxfordshire was ruled out very early on. There were too many unpleasant associations; short visits to check on Adam and the Them were one thing, but to make a home there was out of the question. Book-collecting Aziraphale and culture-sponge Crowley both agreed that they’d like to stay within easy reach of London, and close enough that Tadfield could be a day trip. 

This was how they had selected an area to search. Otherwise, their requirements were simple. Crowley wanted a garden that he could pour his aimless energy into and Aziraphale needed enough room to house a shop's worth of books.

The house in Walberton had seemed almost too perfect during their first viewing. Crowley had never felt suspicious of a building before and certainly not for the simple crime of meeting his requirements so neatly. These were more fears that Aziraphale had managed to soothe with logic and quiet affection.

That was another thing that had developed since the world hadn’t ended. Crowley would swear that it had come out of the blue but Aziraphale maintained that it had been a gradual, unstoppable process. They now openly shared affectionate touches and sweet kisses. The first time that Crowley heard Aziraphale say ‘I love you’ he thought he’d hallucinated. He couldn’t fathom hearing those words directed at him, least of all from Aziraphale. That had been on the day they had moved into the house together and had already taken the top spot in the list of Crowley’s favourite memories. Number two on the list was the look on Aziraphale’s face when Crowley had finally said it back.

Although it still made Crowley’s battered heart soar to hear affirmations of love from Aziraphale, they expressed them much more easily and readily these days. Crowley no longer thought twice about resting his head in Aziraphale’s lap whilst he was reading on the sofa, nor about hugging him from behind when Aziraphale was focused on something in the kitchen and planting soft kisses on his love’s neck. All in all, life was treating Crowley pretty well. His biggest concern was whether the rose garden needed a firmer hand in dealing with the greenfly problem.

His mind still fixed on the greenfly issue, Crowley headed down to the cellar to fetch a bottle of wine for the evening. Aziraphale was cooking something that smelled divine and Crowley had thoroughly inspected the scent profile in order to pick the perfect complimentary wine. He loved being able to show his angel all the ways in which he paid attention to him. A bottle of Malbec, ironically named Devil Proof, seemed like an ideal fit for the meal, Crowley took it back upstairs in order to decant it and let the wine breathe before dinner.

Aziraphale stood at the stove, whisking something in a small saucepan. It was just such a domestic scene, an idyll that Crowley never expected to want or find, he couldn’t stop himself from sighing. The smile that Aziraphale bestowed upon him at noticing his presence made his heart jump into his throat.

“Wine.” Crowley held up the bottle by way of explanation, soothing his fear of having intruded. “To go with dinner.”

“Good choice. That’s a great year, too.”

Damn it all, but Crowley preened at the praise. There was nothing in any realm that felt as good as sincere approval from Aziraphale and he had it practically on tap.

Meals shared together were a ritual that both enjoyed deeply. Crowley adored watching Aziraphale relish each mouthful as much as he savoured sampling the dishes that they each created. This meal was no exception; meat, sauce, and accompaniments all melted together in the mouth to create a luxurious experience that approached the divine. Crowley was draining his glass when Aziraphale set his knife and fork on his plate and cleared his throat.

“I’ve been thinking,” Aziraphale was the picture of innocence and inoffensiveness as he spoke. “Do you think it might be worth selling your old flat?” 

“Why? It’s not like we need the money, angel.” An icy finger of panic stroked Crowley's spine although he wouldn’t have been able to explain the cause.

“Well, it’s just sitting there empty. We don’t ever use it, even when we’re in London overnight. And I wonder if it’s another tie to the past that we could sever?”

Crowley worked that thought over in his mind for a moment. Why was he holding on to the place? There was no sentimental value, it had just been the kind of place that he thought he should have. Everything he cared about was here in this old manor house. Aziraphale made some excellent points and none of them appeared to be a trap designed to trick Crowley.

“You’re right. Of course, you’re right. I’ll find an agent to get it on the market tomorrow.”

“There’s no rush, dearest. Take more time to think it over if you want to.”

Crowley shook his head. He’d been convinced, the flat would be sold as soon as he could find a buyer. In that part of London, it would take no time at all. With that settled, the conversation turned towards more mundane topics such as whether rain was likely over the weekend and which shade of blue to decorate the second guest bedroom.


	2. Careful Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not sorry. DovahCourts and I worked really hard on this and I think releasing it again, chapter by chapter is going to help it get the recognition I think it's worthy of.
> 
> Sorry if you're subscribed to me and already read this, though. I'll try not to be too annoying.

“And there’s no other way to do it?” Crowley sounded frustrated. “Yeah, yeah. Fine, I’ll be there.” He ended the call and dragged his fingers through his hair in a way that Aziraphale knew all too well.

“Is there a problem?”

Crowley flopped onto the sofa next to Aziraphale and swung his legs over the arm. Aziraphale obligingly lifted his book and made room for Crowley’s head on his lap. He could see stress written over the face of his beloved and the minute twitching around his eyes that meant Crowley wished he had his sunglasses to hand. Aziraphale put his book down on the side table and focused his attention on Crowley, stroking his hair and reaching to entwine their fingers together.

“The bloody estate agent needs me to go to London for a couple of days. Gotta go sign some stuff and the buyer is insisting on meeting me. Some superstitious stuff, I think. I just- I don’t want to go.”

“It’s OK, love. I’ll be there with you.” Aziraphale radiated calming energy.

“That’s just it. You can’t. It’s Thursday and Friday.” Crowley threw his arm over his face.

“Oh.” Aziraphale deflated.

“Yeah,  _ oh _ .”

Aziraphale had made a point of getting to know their neighbours, developing relationships and establishing the couple as a welcome fixture at most village events. He had been so effective that when Mr and Mrs Polk had found themselves suddenly needing an overnight babysitter so they could attend a funeral, Aziraphale had been their first choice.

“I’ll just tell the Polks that I can’t do it now.”

Crowley gave an extremely pointed look that communicated pretty clearly what he thought about that.

“Don’t be ridiculous, angel. I’ll be fine, I just wish I didn’t have to do it.”

Anyone else would have been convinced by Crowley’s act but Aziraphale had been watching him lie for millennia. Crowley was still anxious about the idea; he was just trying to accept the inevitable.

“Nothing is going to go wrong. I’ll still be here when you get back. It might even be good for you to see that we can be apart without anything bad happening.” Aziraphale softened the edge of his words with a kiss placed gently on Crowley’s brow.

“I’m sure you’re right. I just needed to be dramatic about it first.” A demonic grin was a rare treat these days, Aziraphale thought this made the one he was currently being treated to all the more precious.

Thursday morning arrived and Crowley was clearly still feeling some anxiety about leaving Aziraphale home alone for what amounted to a little over 24 hours. Aziraphale had done his best to calm him, to reassure him that all would be well. Still, it hurt him to see Crowley so agitated and uncomfortable. 

Crowley was in the kitchen, finishing a cup of coffee, when Aziraphale decided to make one last attempt to soothe him.

“Crowley, will you bring your wings out for a moment?”

“What? Why? Angel, I have to get going.”

“Humour me, please?” Aziraphale caught Crowley by the shoulder and turned him so they were facing each other, allowing Crowley to see that his wings were already in the corporeal plane.

Crowley made a face expressing his combination of confusion and amusement as he called his wings to appear. A muted sigh of air displacement announced their appearance as much as the awed gasp from Aziraphale’s lips.

“I always forget how beautiful your wings are, dearheart.” Aziraphale was entranced for a moment, reaching out to stroke the iridescent black feathers.

“Was there a reason for this or did you just want to get a good look?” Aziraphale recognised Crowley’s attempt at appearing annoyed for the defence mechanism it was.

Stretching one of his own ice-white wings around his body, Aziraphale began running his fingers through the plumage. He gave a few experimental tugs before finding one loose enough to pluck without hurting himself. Checking it over for any imperfections, Aziraphale was aware of Crowley’s curious gaze and appreciated that he hadn’t felt the need to interrupt with any pointless questions.

“Turn around, please.” Crowley obliged, offering his wings spread as wide as the kitchen would allow. “I’m giving you one of my feathers as a talisman. Something that you’ll be able to feel to remind you that I am here. I am waiting for you. You have a home with me. You are safe. You are so, so loved.” Aziraphale spoke softly as he lay his feather between layers of Crowley’s midnight plumage. “It’s something that angels used to do all the time, give a feather to a loved one before parting. The practice had quite slipped my mind until now.”

“Angel...” Crowley trailed off.

“Can you feel that? Is it uncomfortable?” Aziraphale settled the feathers back as best he could.

“I can feel it. It’s perfect,” Crowley tucked his wings in and span around, catching Aziraphale in his arms and pulling him into a tight hug. “Thank you, angel. This is really going to help.”

Hearing that, Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief and returned the embrace of his lover. He buried his face in Crowley’s neck, trying to buy enough time to fight back the tears that threatened. They were going to be OK and would be stronger for facing the challenge together.

The Bentley screamed along at a relatively sedate 100mph. The usual thrill of fast driving was being tempered by Crowley’s reluctance to put distance between himself and Aziraphale. Or perhaps it was his reluctance to be back in London on his own. Any time he felt the panic rising, he could focus on the peculiar feeling in his wing; the small disruption to the lay of his feathers caused by the most precious gift he could have been given. 

It was like having a steadying hand on the small of his back, or warm fingers laced with his. It centred him, grounded him, calmed him. It was a wonderful idea and so typical of his bright, clever, marvellous angel. Still, Crowley wasn’t exactly happy about being forced to go to London for some human nonsense.

Crowley went directly to the flat and let himself in. The estate agent had said he’d arrive around 4 pm which gave Crowley roughly twenty minutes alone in his former home. Completely bare of any of his belongings, the flat felt a great deal bigger than usual. Crowley prowled through the rooms, restlessly pacing like a tiger in a zoo who knows that dinner time is approaching. He found himself lingering in the space where he’d kept his plants, it felt the emptiest of all the rooms, completely devoid of life now.

The sound of keys in the door made Crowley jump, it was just the estate agent letting himself in. A touch too late, Crowley remembered that he no longer had keys to the flat. He’d never used them anyway, but humans tended to care about that sort of thing. He summoned a second set just before the door opened.

“Oh! Mr Crowley, you're here! I saw your car out front and wondered where you’d got to.” The estate agent was a red-faced man with less hair than he was currently willing to accept. “Uh, just how did you get in?”

Crowley smiled sheepishly and offered up the keys that hadn’t existed 10 seconds earlier.

“I found a set I’d forgotten I had, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, no matter. It happens to the best of us.” The agent took the keys and pocketed them. Crowley fought the urge to make them vanish but lost. “I’ve got the paperwork all here for you if you want to look it over before signing tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s a very generous offer.”

Crowley took the proffered pages and flicked through them with practised disinterest.

“Hm? Oh yes. Especially considering what I paid for it originally.”

The estate agent looked uneasy for a moment. “About that, when did you say you bought the place? I’m not sure what they’ve got going on at the registry but they claimed that the property had been in your name for eighty or so years.”

_ Humans and their records _ , Crowley cursed internally. Being an immortal vassal of Hell had been so much easier when people didn’t expect to live past 40 and no one ever asked to see your ID.

“That’s odd. I bought it in the late 90s. Got it for a song on account of it having been abandoned and needing a bunch of work.” Crowley lied easily enough.

The estate agent appeared satisfied with this answer, although he was probably just refusing to question a comforting lie.

“I must say, Mr Crowley, that I appreciate you coming into town for the sale. The buyer is a bit of an eccentric and has these funny little rituals. They’re harmless enough, but for the amount of money you’ve been offered it seems like the smart thing to do to play along.”

The gleam in his eyes and on his brow told Crowley that the commission from this sale was probably funding something highly coveted and more than a little illicit. He waved his hand dismissively as if to say that it was no trouble but, all the same, spared a tiny amount of focus for his ruffled wing. A mantra repeated as steadily as his heartbeat. All was well.

“The buyer, Ms Smith, should be here any minute. I’ll head off when she arrives and leave you two to it, then I’ll see you at the office tomorrow morning to tie up the last of the loose ends. You’ve got my number if you need anything, right?”

Crowley nodded briskly, already irritated by this nonsense and the paper-thin veneer of gentility that barely masked the greed of the estate agent. He just wanted this day to be over. A shrill noise suddenly split the air, amplified by the empty space. Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin before recognising the sound of his own doorbell. He’d heard it so rarely during his time living here after all.

The estate agent opened the door, introduced Crowley to Ms Smith very briefly and then made his hasty exit. Probably going to place his order for donor hair plugs, Crowley thought bitterly.

Ms Smith was compact in every sense. She exuded an aura of efficiency, from her plain clothes to her no-nonsense hairstyle to the way she very deliberately took up a minimal amount of physical space; she looked like the kind of person who sends one-word emails and only smiles when legally required to. Crowley was not looking forward to spending any amount of time in her presence.

She peered at Crowley from behind wire-frame spectacles. It made his skin itch. Something about her just set him on edge, something he was struggling to place. The late afternoon sun glinted off her glasses as she turned her head, looking at him from different angles.

“Coffee.”

It wasn’t a question or an invitation, more like a demand. Crowley bristled but held himself back from being fully uncooperative.

“Sure. There’s a place on the corner.”

Ms Smith made a sharp gesture to indicate that Crowley should lead the way. They left the flat, letting the door latch lock behind them. 

The chain coffee shop on the corner was busy, full of the first round of commuters getting a hot drink before the trek home. There was a miraculously free table in a back corner that Crowley pointed out before joining the queue. Several people in front of him suddenly decided that they didn’t actually want anything after all and left, pushing Crowley up to the front in record time. He ordered, paid and returned to his companion with two lattes. If she had even noticed anything unusual about the speed with which Crowley was served, she didn’t mention it. Nor did she mention his ever-present sunglasses.

In fact, for several minutes, she didn’t say anything at all. Crowley, whilst used to long silences, became agitated. She had demanded this meeting, she was the reason that he’d left Aziraphale home alone, she was the one making weird requests instead of just buying a perfectly normal flat. The least she could do would be to talk!

Crowley gritted his teeth and drank his coffee, fuming about being dragged away from home for no reason. He stared into his drink, not trusting himself to look at her without accidentally combusting her. So he wasn’t looking when she changed her latte into a milkshake. And he didn’t notice that she had encouraged everyone else to leave the coffee shop until the place was empty and silent.

“Crowley.”

He looked up sharply, finally registering the silence and eerie stillness around them.

“Oh, shit.”

Ms Smith put up her hands in a gesture of peace; the kind of gesture that humans use with wild animals to show that they can be trusted. Much like a wild animal, Crowley didn’t believe it. He stood up to leave and turned towards the door.

“I’m trying to save Aziraphale. Don’t leave.”

He’d almost made it to the exit, his hand raised in front of him to push the door open. There was little else that she could have said that would have convinced him to stay and, although he was mentally preparing for a trap, Crowley slowly spun around to face her.

“This is a lot of pretence to go through just to meet me, even for an angel.”

“I needed to be sure to get you alone. No one can know that I’m here. Heaven has a pretty strong policy of staying hands-off with you two right now.” She sounded earnest enough.

Crowley watched her warily as he came back to the table. The first sign of manipulation or glee and he’d be gone, but she looked relieved. He took his seat and leaned back from the table, putting distance between them.

“Go on then, what does Aziraphale need saving from?”

“You, Crowley. He needs saving from you.”


	3. Taking Care Of All The Mess I Made

The angel, Claitiel, had spilled her story so quickly that Crowley was still picking through the pieces. He wanted to believe that none of it made sense, that he hadn’t suspected something like this all along. He wished that Aziraphale was with him, he’d have known what to do. Brilliant, clever Aziraphale. Crowley would do anything to protect him and now it looked like he was being asked to prove that.

“Tell me again, how did you find this out?” Crowley rubbed his eyes behind his glasses as he spoke.

“I work in holiness monitoring. Usually, we watch the big scale stuff: wars, religions, political movements. That way we can intervene and nudge things the right way if needed. We always need to adjust for the sort of background radiation of holiness from angels on Earth. As you know, Aziraphale has been the only angel continuously on Earth since the beginning. I was running our centennial calibration on Aziraphale and found that the reading was significantly lower than I’d expected.” Her eye contact was intense as if she was willing him to believe her with the force of it.

“A lot has happened in the past hundred years. He was instrumental in stopping the apocalypse; I’m sure that would have put a dent in it.”

Claitiel nodded solemnly.

“I thought that at first, which is why I checked the past readings. And then I took retroactive readings for every year of the past century. For almost six thousand years, Aziraphale has been getting microscopically less holy every time we’ve checked. This was assumed to be due to contact with humans and, well, the forces of Hell. It was such a minute amount that no one was worried. It continued at this rate until the Antichrist was born. Each year since then, Aziraphale has grown exponentially less holy. He’s dangerously close to Falling, with a capital F.”

Something gnawed at Crowley, a suspicion that this had always been inevitable, that he had always known this was coming. He slouched in his seat, folding in on himself a little more.

“Why do you care?”

“Officially, I don’t. Heaven welcomes his Fall as a solution to a problem they were really screwed on. But Aziraphale was one of the few angels who was ever kind to me, he always remembered my name and had something nice to say. Heaven can be so competitive and fake. He always struck me as an angel you could count on. He was my friend,” She paused before continuing in a conspiratorial whisper. “And, strictly between us, I thought you two were right to stop Armageddon. Humans deserve better than being wiped out in a war they had no part in.”

Crowley agreed with the sentiment despite being highly suspicious of the messenger. His cynicism regarding any celestial visitor was battling with his innate self-loathing. As much as he didn’t want to believe what he was hearing, it plucked at something deep inside him. Something he tried to ignore no matter how much it jabbed at his mind. The idea that his infernal influence was going to corrupt Aziraphale had been the main thing that had kept him from openly expressing his love for so long, kept him from getting too close. He screwed his eyes shut and wished that Aziraphale was there with him.

“Why should I trust you?” Crowley expected that holier-than-thou answer that he’d heard so often from Aziraphale over the years. That the very fact that he was an angel was not, in actuality, proof that he wasn’t lying was a lesson that Crowley had been slow to learn.

Instead of answering, Claitiel leaned towards him and reached her hand around his back. He turned his head to watch what she was doing and saw her fingers disappear just before he felt her grope roughly in the feathers of his hidden wings. Crowley’s mouth fell open in shock at such a personal invasion as he tried to jerk away. He was at a loss for words. In a second, it was all over and Claitiel had her hand back in the physical realm. Clasped between her fingers was Aziraphale’s feather.

“Don’t take that!” Panic gripped Crowley’s throat.

“I’m not taking it. I just need you to look at it. Look at it very closely.” She handed the feather over to Crowley who willed his hands not to shake.

The feather gleamed with a silver sheen, it smelled of Aziraphale and made him long for home. He turned the feather over in his hands, looking at the shaft and barbs. He stroked the downy barbs around the quill and ran its length between his fingers. For a moment, he lost himself in the pleasure of holding a part of Aziraphale, willingly given in love. Then he saw it and all the blood drained from his face.

The shaft was covered in tiny black speckles.

Claitiel summoned a second feather and laid it on the table in front of Crowley.

“This is one of mine, for comparison.” She sounded regretful.

The feather that she presented glowed so brightly that it was almost painful to look at, even through his sunglasses. It made Aziraphale’s feather look grubby by comparison. Crowley’s vision blurred as he looked at the two side by side, tears pooling along his lashes.

“You’re tarnishing him, Crowley. He’s going to Fall if you stay with him. You know what you need to do.”

“This is such bullshit.” Crowley pushed away from the table and stood up. “Maybe he’d be better off Fallen!” He just needed to say something to her, anything that might sting and let out a fraction of the fear he was feeling.

Crowley snatched up Aziraphale’s feather and walked out of the coffee shop. Claitiel called after him.

“You mustn’t tell him! If he knows, the damage will be permanent!”

He didn’t acknowledge her as he swept out of the door and into the sunlight, but her words burned into his brain all the same. Whatever decision he was going to make, he’d have to make it alone.

Crowley walked all night, holding Aziraphale’s feather to his chest and lost in thought. He found himself passing so many locations of landmark moments in his relationship with Aziraphale although he had no destination or direction in mind. His feet carried him past the old bookshop and the Ritz, St James’s Park with its familiar ducks and paths, the bandstand where Aziraphale had rejected him, the bus stop where he had first held Aziraphale’s hand, and deeper still. The site of the tavern they’d got drunk in when Shakespeare died, the building that used to house the club where Aziraphale had introduced him to Oscar Wilde, the park that Crowley had found a crying Aziraphale in when Oscar was put away, the gallery he had taken Aziraphale to without warning him about the portrait of Crowley that hung amongst the masters. He supposed that when you live in a place for over 500 years, every corner is bound to have a memory attached to it.

What was it all for, the fight and the triumph, if the only thing he wanted couldn’t be his? Crowley had accepted long ago that he would never be forgiven, that he could never ascend back to his celestial heights. It wasn’t fair, but no one had ever claimed that it was. For a time, sure, he’d toyed with the idea of Aziraphale Falling, allowing them to be together. Aziraphale was strong and smart. Crowley would be there to help him. Even in his deepest delusions, he knew that this was folly. Aziraphale would be broken by the Fall, just like they all had been. You couldn’t be the same as you were before.

Dawn found him sitting on the steps of Aziraphale’s old bookshop, idly twirling the feather between his fingertips. He had burned with rage and collapsed with grief but now, in the cold light of the sunrise, he knew there was only one thing he could do.


	4. Never Really Your Type

The Bentley was in the drive when Aziraphale got home which put a little spring in his step and joy in his heart. He was looking forward to a good cuddle and maybe lounging in front of the fireplace. Now they had managed a night apart with no disasters, he hoped that Crowley’s anxieties would be eased. Not that he blamed Crowley for fearing the things he did; Aziraphale couldn’t imagine how he would have coped if their positions had been reversed that day and Crowley was missing, presumed dead. And he had made remarkable progress so far, largely evident through his ability to talk about his fears instead of bottling things up and ignoring them. Aziraphale was truly proud of his partner and how far he’d come; together they were learning how to communicate better and how to undo indoctrination so deep it predated the creation of time.

It had been a little over 24 hours since Crowley had left their home; Aziraphale was surprised to find just how excited he was to see him again. He called out as soon as he had the front door open. There was no response which meant that Crowley was probably in the garden. No doubt he was reminding the plants exactly who was boss. Aziraphale hurried through the house to the French doors, finding them wide open and almost beckoning him outside to where Crowley could be seen. 

He was kneeling on the grass beside a flower bed, his sleeves rolled up and his hands deep in the dirt around the petunias. A warm, loving smile spread across Aziraphale’s face as he watched his love so engrossed in his task. Taking the rare opportunity afforded by a distracted Crowley, Aziraphale crept up behind him and draped his arms around Crowley’s shoulders.

“Hello love.” He said, burying his face in Crowley’s flame-red hair. “I missed you.”

Crowley froze for a split second and then melted, turning his head to seek a kiss which Aziraphale enthusiastically delivered, although, not without noticing that Crowley was wearing his sunglasses again, something he had stopped doing when it was just the two of them.

“Missed you too, angel. How was babysitting?”

Aziraphale stayed pressed against Crowley’s back as he recounted the blow-by-blow account of his night with the children. The demon gave every indication that he was listening despite appearing somewhat distracted with filling in a hole he’d made in the flowerbed.

“Did everything go alright in London?” He kept his voice as light as possible, feeling Crowley tense against him.

“Uh, pssh. Yeah, I mean, got everything signed and, you know. Squared away. Money’s cleared and the flat is sold. All good.”

That worried Aziraphale more than he liked to admit. He knew that Crowley wouldn’t directly lie to him, which meant that whatever was upsetting him wasn’t a problem with the sale. Experience had taught him that Crowley didn’t really consider lies of omission to be lying. Either Aziraphale could keep asking until he hit the right question, or he could let Crowley work through whatever it was until he got to a point where he was comfortable talking about it. And you don’t love Crowley for millennia without knowing that it’s far better to let him come to you than pestering him. Sighing inwardly, Aziraphale gave Crowley a little squeeze and released him, stepping back to help him to his feet.

Once they were standing face to face, Crowley surprised Aziraphale by lunging at him and wrapping him in a rib-crushing hug. Aziraphale could feel the desperation and sadness in the gesture. It hurt his heart to recognise the suffering afflicting his beloved. He stroked Crowley’s hair and neck, whispering reassuring affirmations of love and kissing his cheek as he held him close.

Later that evening, the couple split a bottle of wine from the cellar and sat in front of the fire together. Crowley wasted no time in assuming his usual position; sprawled across the sofa and Aziraphale in equal measure. Aziraphale was holding a book but had stopped reading sometime shortly after Crowley’s head had landed in his lap. The sunglasses were still on, he noted, gently caressing the side of the demon’s face.

“Angel?”

“Yes, love?”

“I love you. You know that, right?”

“I do. It is the greatest blessing of my existence.” Aziraphale leaned down to kiss Crowley tenderly.

Crowley wrapped an arm around Aziraphale’s neck and pulled him closer, prolonging and deepening the kiss. It was everything that Aziraphale had ever wanted and here he was, lucky enough to experience it every day for the rest of time. He closed his eyes and gave himself over fully to the experience of kissing his lover.

Aziraphale had found that he actively enjoyed sleep when it was a shared activity. Together, they had picked out a decadently comfortable bed and a selection of luxurious sheets, pillows, and duvets. The effect was rather like being absorbed by a marshmallow. When Crowley asked Aziraphale to sleep with him that night, there was no need to even think about a response. Crowley snaked himself around him, turning a sleepy cuddle into a constrictor-like hold as if he was afraid of letting go. Aziraphale found it very reassuring, to be clung to so tightly that they might become one. Mortals might have struggled to sleep in such a position, luckily that was no problem for Aziraphale who drifted off peacefully, encased in love.

When Aziraphale woke, Crowley was already up. Aziraphale padded downstairs to find Crowley sitting at the kitchen table, sunglasses on and car keys in his hand. He looked ready to go out and like he had been waiting for Aziraphale for some time.

“Are we going somewhere?” Aziraphale asked, confused.

“I am. I’m leaving.”

His voice was so cold and distant that Aziraphale felt like he’d been dunked into an ice bath.

He knew it was selfish. He knew he shouldn’t indulge himself this way. Damn it all, he  _ knew _ that he shouldn’t have put this off even a moment. The moment that Aziraphale had wrapped his arms around his shoulders in their garden, Crowley had known that he wanted just one more day, one more night, with the only being he’d ever loved. It would make what he had to do all the more difficult, but maybe if he could pour enough love into one last day, maybe he would have a strong enough memory of what happiness felt like to sustain him for the rest of eternity.

As long shots go, this was a real stretch. Crowley just couldn’t help himself from reaching for the endless well of love and security that Aziraphale represented. Now he had to watch himself tear Aziraphale’s heart in two.

The first blow had been struck. Still mussed from sleep, barefoot and adorable, Aziraphale looked like someone had pulled the ground out from under his feet.

“What do you mean, leaving?” Aziraphale sounded more confused than hurt.

“I’m leaving, for good. I’m leaving you, this house, this life. It’s a very simple concept.”

One shaking hand reached out to hold the back of a chair as Aziraphale tried to steady himself. Crowley ignored it as best he could, which is to say not at all. He gritted his teeth against the tears that already threatened his weak human body.

“Why? I don’t understand. What’s caused this?”

Crowley scoffed as if to insinuate that Aziraphale was missing very obvious reasons.

“I’ve had enough. It’s boring here, I’m bored and withering away. Being in London on my own reminded me of what fun I used to have. That’s the life I want,” He shrugged.

“We can have that life together! If that’s what you want, we can have that,” Aziraphale sounded desperate, now leaning heavily on the chair that supported him.

Crowley laughed as coldly as he was able.

“Why would I want you there? I thought you were supposed to be clever, Aziraphale.” All Crowley’s self-control was directed at making his voice as hurtful and sneering as possible; he had to sell Aziraphale on this completely.

He saw the wince of pain cross Aziraphale’s face at the sound of his own name. It felt worse to Crowley than if he had physically struck him, to see the trust being slowly eroded away word by word.

“Crowley,” his voice cracked. “Where is this coming from?” Aziraphale was on the verge of tears now.

Crowley made himself watch, forced himself to acknowledge and bear witness to the pain he was causing his most beloved. This was so much harder than he had feared, even knowing that he had to do this, that Aziraphale  _ needed  _ this to be saved, Crowley just wanted to take him in his arms and apologise with kisses.

“Of course you don’t. Your idea of fun is a boring book and marshmallows in your cocoa. I’m a demon, did you really think that I’d be satisfied with terrorising a few plants? Hell, I bet you did! I bet you forgot what I actually am and convinced yourself that I’m to other demons what a house cat is to a tiger!” It was all coming too easily now, the well practised excuses and arguments felt too natural.

“I didn’t! I’d never! I love you for who and what you are, not what I think you might be or what I could make you.”

Crowley pressed his lips into a thin line, fighting the sob that choked in his throat and as grateful as ever for his sunglasses.

“Listen to yourself! You’re pathetic! Tempting an angel was supposed to be a challenge, something to pass the time until the apocalypse. Now it hasn’t happened, you think you’re in love with me, and I’m just bored. You took all the fun out of it.” Crowley sneered.

He knew that above all else, he had to hurt Aziraphale. He had to do enough damage that Aziraphale would want to stay away. The pain and resentment had to outweigh any doubt or love that might remain. It was for his own good. Crowley was  _ saving  _ him, even if it felt like killing him.

Aziraphale pulled out the chair he’d been leaning on and sat down, his face buried in his hands for a moment.

“What happened in London? Why are you doing this?” Aziraphale was clutching for any reassurance.

“I’ve told you everything you need to know.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing else to it.”

Aziraphale sobbed and it broke Crowley’s heart. It would hurt less to have his heart ripped out by vultures, but he knew he needed to push on.

“Please.” Aziraphale looked up from his hands and fixed Crowley with a tear-soaked stare. “Please, don’t do this.”

This was the most difficult thing that Crowley had ever done. His heart was shattered, his every nerve was screaming at him to stop, to take it all back. He couldn’t. He pulled his sunglasses down and looked over them to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. A very discrete miracle had banished all evidence of his own tears.

“You know, if you’re even half as clever as you think you are you’d have realised a long time ago that demons simply aren’t capable of love.”

He pushed away from the table and stood up, balancing by willpower alone. He turned and walked to the front door, all too aware of the sound of Aziraphale’s heart-wrenching sobs following him. He opened the door and stepped outside, almost missing the soft thud from behind him. Crowley spared a glance over his shoulder and regretted it immediately.

Aziraphale had fallen to his knees, just inside the door. He looked up at Crowley, his hands clasped as if in prayer and his perfect eyes overflowing with tears.

“Please. Stay.”

Crowley hooked his ankle around the door and pulled it closed between them. The Bentley’s engine roared to life before Crowley had opened the door, drowning out the keening that had begun just inside the only building that had ever truly felt like home.

There was no speed fast enough to put distance between Crowley and the life he had just abandoned. The Bentley obliged as far as was practicable, making the run to London at speeds usually reserved for certain salt flats. Crowley didn’t let himself feel anything until he was well within the accursed London Orbital. It seemed safer this way, reducing the chance that he would change his mind and race back to his angel.

In a snap, Crowley secured a modest home and an excessive amount of alcohol. He put the Bentley in the garage and sealed it with occult sigils to keep it safe in case he ever wanted it again. Then he drank, and drank, and cried, drank some more, wailed at his sad fate, then just to round it all off, he drank a bit more. Finally, feeling like the room might spin out of control at any moment, Crowley slithered into bed and settled in for a century-long depression nap.


	5. Your Little Piece of Heaven Turns Too Dark

Aziraphale didn’t move for almost a week. He just stayed on his knees, staring at the closed door and hoping that Crowley would walk back in with a smile and an explanation. He cried, he prayed, he pleaded with the empty air, and he mourned. As a being who had always been perfectly content in his own company, Aziraphale was shocked to recognise a new feeling creeping in. For the first time in his six thousand years on earth and the immeasurable period before Creation, Aziraphale felt lonely.

At some point on the fourth day after Crowley walked out, Aziraphale’s tears ran dry. Conversely. he felt as though his grief was a bottomless well which would never cease filling him. No matter how strongly he believed that his love would return, the door remained stubbornly closed. Around dawn on day six, Aziraphale started to accept the reality he found himself in. By midday, he had woven a mental tapestry of delusion and self-loathing fit to convince him that he had brought this on himself. Denying Crowley for so long, keeping him at arm's length or further, constantly choosing Heaven and their blatant manipulation over the freely offered love; it was a wonder that Crowley hadn’t walked out long ago.

Once he was thoroughly convinced that Crowley was right to leave, it was a lot easier to stand and leave his vigil. Aziraphale found a tub of triple chocolate ice cream in the freezer and ate it straight from the carton with a spoon, wrapped in a blanket that smelled of Crowley; woodsmoke and gingerbread. His spoon scraped the bottom at the same moment that his heart tapped into a fresh wellspring of tears.

How was he supposed to cope without Crowley? Why had he been such a fool for so long? What was the point of existing if he had to do it alone?

He didn’t believe for a second that Crowley had been telling the truth about not being able to experience love, Aziraphale had sensed waves of it coming from the demon for the longest time. That was what was so chilling about the way Crowley had felt as he left; the love was gone. It was as if a switch had been flipped or a faucet turned off. What could have snapped in him to break their bond so suddenly? Aziraphale couldn’t fathom it, but he knew that he was to blame.

In short, he was miserable.

Time moved on, as it tended to do, and the first weekend of the month rolled around. Adam would be expecting their visit. Aziraphale couldn’t stand letting the boy down and perhaps, just perhaps, Crowley would feel the same and they could talk. 

With limbs made of lead and a heart to match, Aziraphale got himself ready for the journey to Tadfield. He’d never made the trip alone, instead, he was always a content, if slightly terrified, passenger in the Bentley. Things like bus and train timetables weren’t a concern, they just aligned perfectly according to Aziraphale’s needs. He felt a sharp jab of wrongness and loneliness in his guts with every mile he travelled.

Once in Tadfield, Aziraphale made for the Young residence to visit with Adam’s parents. He knew that Crowley preferred to spend all his time with the Them, but some things must be done appropriately. If Mrs Young put an extra fairy cake out with the tea out of habit or sympathy, Aziraphale didn’t care to ask. The hole he felt inside him wasn’t sated no matter how much he ate, but he was still trying. At one point Mr Young did attempt to address the elephant in the room that took the shape of an absent demon, but his wife elbowed him sharply and changed the subject. Aziraphale was far more grateful than she could know.

“I should like to chat with Adam if he’s around?” Aziraphale asked after judging that an appropriate amount of time had passed.

“Oh, he’s out in the woods with his friends. You know the spot.” Mrs Young offered helpfully.

“I’d have thought he’d have outgrown that sort of thing, being nearly 13.” Mr Young said to no-one in particular.

Aziraphale hummed noncommittally and stood up from the table with an angelic smile. He took his leave of them and heard the muted yet urgent whispers between husband and wife erupt as soon as they thought he was out of earshot. What should he tell them? That his best and only friend had broken his heart and left him for good? It didn’t seem right to burden them with his troubles. Aziraphale made his way into Hogback Wood and towards the den of the Them.

As always, he heard them long before he saw them. Whatever the game was, it sounded rowdy. Aziraphale strained to distinguish the voices, hoping above all else to pick out one in particular. The path wound through the trees and finally revealed the ever-changing den the children had built. A new addition appeared to be the source of the noise, a kind of see-saw that used ropes and pulleys across two tree branches so that applying force to one end would cause the other to be pulled high into the air. Brian and Pepper were on one side, pulling the rope down to the ground and heaving Adam and Wensley heavenward at considerable speed.

“Aziraphale!” Brian spotted him first and immediately let go of the rope.

This caused Pepper to be pulled upwards with Wensley and Adam acting as an unwilling counterweight and plummeting down.

“Oops.” Brian had the good sense to look guilty.

With a snap of his fingers, Aziraphale slowed the descent of the two boys and then floated Pepper gently out of harm’s way.

“Wicked!” Pepper yelled as her feet touched the ground.

The gang rushed towards him with greetings, grubby hands, and infectious enthusiasm.

“Where’s Crowley?” Brian asked, craning his neck to see down the path behind Aziraphale.

“Ah, well. You see, the thing is…” Aziraphale trailed off, momentarily lost for the words to use in describing his heartbreak.

Pepper and Adam shot each other a look, being somewhat quicker on the uptake than the other two.

“Is Crowley OK?” Pepper asked carefully.

“Oh, oh yes. I imagine he’s fine.” Aziraphale sniffed.

“But you don’t know?” Wensley was incredulous.

A meaningful silence held the group for a moment. Brian opened his mouth again and Pepper slapped her hand over it.

“We’re happy to see you. Do you like our new invention?” Pepper artfully redirected their collective attention.

Aziraphale made a great show of inspecting the contraption, listening to the patchwork of explanations given by the children and declaring himself delighted by it. He imbued it with a subtle blessing, ensuring that nothing more serious than a skinned knee would come from the many hours of play it would see. He even allowed the Them to give a demonstration of its lifting power upon himself. It was a remarkably welcome distraction from the gnawing emptiness in his chest.

After extracting himself from the ropes, Aziraphale settled himself in his usual spot, a section of felled tree near the lip of the crater that the gang had made their base. He was content to watch the children play whilst quietly observing Adam for anything out of the ordinary. Pepper and Brian decided to have a contest of strength, egged on by Adam and to be judged by Wensley. Aziraphale rather favoured Pepper in this match and watched intently enough to miss the moment that Adam broke away from the group and came to sit next to him.

“Hullo, Aziraphale.”

“Hello there, Adam.”

“Are you OK?”

Aziraphale had not expected that. He looked at Adam more closely and updated his mental classification of him. It was becoming difficult to call the group ‘children’ any more. Soon they would all be teenagers and some of the pressures that entailed were beginning to show already.

“Why do you ask?”

Adam chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully and looked at Aziraphale as he formed an answer that made sense.

“You seem, dunno,  _ off _ .” Adam waved his hands vaguely. “You don’t have to tell me, but is it about Crowley? About why he’s not here?”

“Adam, dear boy, you needn’t worry.” Aziraphale gave his warmest smile in reassurance.

Adam merely gave him a look. The kind of look that reminded everyone within his immediate radius that he had once stared down Satan himself and wasn’t going to be brushed off by a Principality in denial. Aziraphale felt his resolve falter just enough. He worried at the ring on his little finger and a line formed between his brows.

“I don’t think it’s proper to put such subjects in the open. However, I will tell you that Crowley has left. I don’t know where he is because he doesn’t want me to know. I’m sorry to say that I don’t even know if he’ll still visit you.”

After considering this for a moment, Adam appeared to come to a decision.

“I know we’re just kids to you but you’re part of our gang, y’know? You can tell us stuff and hang out with us whenever.”

In his chest, Aziraphale’s heart gave a twinge. Adam may have faced the actual devil, but he was also responsible for loving Tadfield so strongly that it had loved him back. Aziraphale was surprised to find even a fraction of that intensely human love reserved for him.

“Thank you, Adam. Oh, I do believe that Pepper is taking her victory celebration a little too far.”

They both watched Pepper dance rings around Brian who was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around his face. As distractions went, this was a good one. Adam groaned and lurched to his feet before announcing a new game. Aziraphale noted with satisfaction that this new game involved a great deal of teamwork. Any grudge or bad blood was quickly forgotten.

Once on the train home, the hollow feeling in his gut started to eat at Aziraphale again. Getting out of the house and being amongst friends had helped, but he could hardly spend every second of every day keeping himself busy and not thinking about Crowley. In the taxi from the station, he found himself thinking wistfully of every time he’d walked into their home and found Crowley waiting for him with a glass of wine, or a new book, or simply a cuddle. Now the house stood empty, barely even deserving the title of home. It was bricks and slate and glass, not the beating heart of a life lovingly shared.

Aziraphale spent another night on the sofa with a bottomless tub of ice cream, attempting to soothe the emptiness.

In the months that followed, Aziraphale often considered leaving the house he had shared with Crowley and returning to London. Sometimes he toyed with the idea of leaving England completely and starting over somewhere new, somewhere that wasn’t drenched in memories of Crowley. He’d even mentioned it to Adam in passing, to see how the boy reacted. Adam had flatly refused to consider the idea of Aziraphale being more than a couple of hours away and had closed that discussion with a speed that had shocked them both. He was more open to the idea of Aziraphale moving back to London, or even Tadfield itself, but London seemed too dangerous an option for Aziraphale’s delicate emotional state.

There was no denying that Adam’s need for guidance and advice was growing. He called Aziraphale at least once a week, often in the small hours of the morning, worried about the state of the world, or the state of the Them, or the short-lived cult that had formed around him recently, or the start of the new school year. As he continued growing into the young man that he would become, his hormones and mood swings caused unexpected phenomena, more impulsive and uncontrolled than before. It would be irresponsible of Aziraphale to leave Adam entirely without supernatural assistance. Who else would have been able to both calm Adam down and miracle away the full beard that Brian had sprouted? Probably Crowley, really. Crowley was always better with the children than Aziraphale, but he had disappeared, so that had really only left one option.

Ultimately, Aziraphale decided to stay in the house, in the village, that he and Crowley had made their home. The thought that Crowley might return to the house one day, looking for him, only to find some other family living there was something that haunted Aziraphale. He didn't doubt Crowley's ability to find him, but it seemed safest just to stay put. Just in case, you understand. Aziraphale couldn't conceive of a scenario where he would do anything other than welcome Crowley back with open arms.

Loneliness was not a sensation that Aziraphale appreciated adding to his repertoire. It was cold, empty, gnawing, and pervasive. It fuelled his inner doubts and eroded his self-worth. The mean little voice inside his head grew louder and more convincing every day, nothing could silence it although Aziraphale tried continuously. As an angel who liked his food, Aziraphale was no stranger to comfort eating; this particular turn of events could have put him into a league of his own, were competitive comfort eating a leagued event. He took up walking, often just leaving the house and picking a direction. The rolling hills of the South Downs provided a great wealth of walking routes and Aziraphale came to know them all. He could walk to the coast in a little under two hours, there he might sit on the beach and watch the gulls wheeling overhead, or he might continue east through Littlehampton and onwards. He tried not to stay out too long, in case Adam needed him, but more than once Aziraphale had found himself walking through the night, aimlessly kicking pebbles off the top of chalk cliffs.

There are certain places in the south-east of England where, if you walk alone along a clifftop looking maudlin and despairing, a friendly chaplain will appear and chat with you. Aziraphale encountered them twice, both times during particularly bad bouts of grief-induced walking which had him reaching Beachy Head just before 11 pm. The first time, he had been pleased to have someone to talk to and had spilt rather more information about his lovelorn state than intended. It wasn't until later that Aziraphale registered how he had been gently guided away from the cliff edge. The second time, Aziraphale was more prepared and he spoke to the chaplain about their work. He allowed himself to be drawn back to a safer location as he learned about the many reasons why people seemingly at the end of their options were drawn to this place. 

It took a great deal of effort to draw down the celestial energy he needed, feeling the way he did, but Aziraphale concentrated and cast a wide blessing over the area so that all who felt that they were without hope might recognise the better alternative before it was too late. Acts like this reminded Aziraphale of his place within Her universe and quieted the lost feeling in his essence.

The garden was a source of great pain for Aziraphale for a long time; he couldn’t bear to be in it, to tend to it, to even look at it out of the window. The curtains at the back of the house were kept closed to save him glimpses of Crowley’s personal Eden. Neighbours would offer to mow the lawn or tackle the worst of the weeds but Aziraphale refused them all, declaring his intention to turn it into a wildflower meadow. The neighbours undoubtedly disliked this approach, but none of them lived close enough to be truly affected. 

Aziraphale got up the courage to stand in the garden once, at a time when he was trying to believe that he was coping better with the abandonment. The feeling of standing in the neglected space, feeling remnants of Crowley’s love and attention, seeing the evidence of its decline, it was all too much. Aziraphale didn’t attempt it again.

During his heartbroken melancholy, Aziraphale continued making the monthly journey to Lower Tadfield to make sure that Adam had at least one reliable and dependable immortal influence in his life. Adam had good, loving parents, but there were just some things that a growing AntiChrist wasn’t going to talk to his parents about. 

Adam’s expressions of power were more sporadic now. Sometimes he could control them remarkably well, like the very early morning barking sessions that R.P. Tyler’s little dachshund had taken to. Curiously, only audible within the Tyler residence. Other times they were the unconscious results of his expectations, such as the continued perfect weather in the village. 

He’d nearly cried when it snowed on that Christmas Eve after he had turned 11, so unsure about how much power he still had. Aziraphale and Crowley had been there, dropping off presents and checking in. Crowley had been distracting Adam by playing video games with him, losing graciously at some cartoonish racing game that Aziraphale had never managed to master when the first flakes settled. It was a cherished memory for Aziraphale. 

The events that had worried both angel and demon were Adam’s sudden, explosive demonstrations. He would sometimes react to a provocation or emotional barb with enough energy to affect reality. Crowley had been working with him to calm his reactions, to take a breath before rendering his teacher mute again, perhaps. Aziraphale was trying to continue that work, but he just wasn’t as good at it. He didn’t know how to explain impulse control because he’d never exercised it. He was slow to anger, quick to snack, and rarely roused beyond a raised voice; Adam appeared to appreciate the efforts but there was no denying that his progress was stalling.

The Them didn’t mention Crowley after the first visit without him, Aziraphale suspected that Adam had filled them in on the situation. It was only when Aziraphale and Adam were out of earshot of the others that either would give voice to the question, never mentioning him by name.

“Any contact?”

The answer was always no.

When, mere weeks after walking out, Crowley missed Adam’s 13 th birthday, Aziraphale was surprised. He hadn’t thought that Crowley would punish the children for whatever he had done. He held out hope for a few more days, that perhaps he’d turn up late with an extravagant present and charming smile, artfully avoiding the possibility of running into Aziraphale. That didn’t come to pass, and then Christmas came and went as well without a sign of him.

Of course, Aziraphale blamed himself. He hadn’t been enough, hadn’t given Crowley what he needed, hadn’t fulfilled him. It was typical of the selfishness that he had shamelessly flaunted for millennia, always expecting Crowley to come running when Aziraphale wanted him. What had Aziraphale given in return? Precious little, upon reflection; a reflection that haunted Aziraphale no matter how many long, rambling walks he took.

Now that Adam’s birthday was approaching again, Aziraphale found himself fretting more and more. The anniversary of Crowley’s leaving had sneaked up on Aziraphale, giving him no time to prepare for the tsunami of grief that engulfed him when he noticed the date on the top of his newspaper. He felt an overwhelming desire to curl up under a collection of blankets and eat his bodyweight in chocolate-fudge ice cream. However, he hadn’t entered any of the bedrooms since Crowley had left. The sleep that he had embraced as a shared pleasure was a thing of the past, just like tender kisses and cuddling in front of the fireplace on cold nights. 

The wound in his heart was as fresh as the day he had watched his love walk out of the door and his life. Without intending to, Aziraphale found himself spending the hated anniversary in the same spot that he had occupied one year prior, kneeling on the floor and keening at the loss of half his heart.


	6. Bittersweet Memories

“What are you getting for your birthday, Adam?” Wensleydale broke a silence that had stretched since they’d shared the sight of Brian losing a fight with Dog for the last bite of his ice lolly.

"I've asked for a computer but I don't know if I'll get it. I think mum is worried about cyberbullying." Said Adam, with the tone of a world-wise teenager pitying his ignorant parents.

"That's ridiculous," Pepper said, stroking Dog's ears. "Adults are too concerned with keeping us safe to realise that we're the future of technology."

The others nodded, having learnt long ago when it was worth questioning Pepper's Opinions.

"Actually, I've got a computer and it's been very educational," Wensleydale added.

"What I really want for my birthday isn't something that anyone can buy." Adam set the conversational train back on its tracks. "I want to see Crowley again."

The Them considered this in somewhat sombre silence. The sudden disappearance of the demon Crowley had been a hotly debated topic last summer, revived again around Christmas, and then largely ignored but not forgotten. They knew that he had broken up with Aziraphale after a trip to London and that he hadn't been in contact since. The others had pestered Adam to get more detail out of Aziraphale so they could flesh out their theories, but they soon learned that Aziraphale was about as clueless as they were. Adam refused to press the issue, seeing how upset Aziraphale got at the mere mention of Crowley.

Unlike Aziraphale, the Them didn't completely dismiss the reason given by Crowley. As much as they loved Aziraphale, as one might love a kindly but detached uncle, they could admit that he tended to be fussy and, well, boring. Crowley was the figurative uncle with the motorbike, the one who taught them swear words and brought exciting gifts. It was easy to imagine that Crowley would get bored with life at Aziraphale's speed. The part of this theory that they didn't like was the implication that Crowley was bored of them too. Or worse, that he had never liked them at all. Adam flatly refused to believe that part, so if Crowley was staying away there would have to be another reason.

Some kind of abduction, with an imposter delivering the break-up, was a hotly contested favourite for some time. Pepper and Adam had argued that Aziraphale would have recognised the deception and stopped at nothing to rescue Crowley. Brian suggested that the imposter had just done such a good job that even Aziraphale was fooled. Wensleydale had the more depressing contribution that perhaps Aziraphale had tried to rescue Crowley and failed. Other theories varied from Aziraphale covering up an accidental death to Hell manipulating Crowley into abandoning his old life. No matter how many hours were dedicated to the discussion, the Them had to acknowledge that they simply had no way of knowing what had happened.

Now, with another birthday looming and the reality of a full year without Crowley sinking in, the group knew that the subject was going to resurface. It haunted the edges of their conversations like a spectre that resisted its eternal rest.

Dog kicked his legs in the air and rolled away from Pepper, scrambling to his paw. He sniffed the air and gave a soft wuffling bark before bolting off into the woods. They all watched him go, tearing off after some imagined prey. Adam knew that he never caught anything, Dog just liked to run and chase and bark as if he might one day be a great hunter.

"We never did ask Anathema. She's a witch, she might know how to summon demons or, or find people or something," Wensleydale said slowly as if the idea might get scared away.

Adam considered it. Anathema had come looking for him back then and, technically, she had found him. Asking adults for help wasn't usually the way the Them liked to do things, though. Adults tended to overreact and suck all the fun out of anything they were involved in.

In some ways, Adam supposed, Anathema was different. She was usually pretty good fun as far as human adults went and although she had got really worked up about losing that book, she never told Adam that what he was doing was stupid or dangerous.

"We never see her, though" Pepper voiced the concern that had been rising in Adam. "She's always having some new adventure somewhere"

"I've got her email address," Wensleydale offered.

"Well, that's that then. We'll go back to Wensley's and send her a message." Adam stood and brushed dead leaves off his jeans.

"Come on, Dog!"

A flash of white leapt from the undergrowth nearby at the sound of his name, obediently allowing his leash to be clipped to his collar.

The Them didn't often go to Wensley's house but they would have struggled to explain why. It was a nice house. His parents were nice. They always had nice snacks. It was just all very  _ nice _ . Adam looked wistfully out at Dog in the back garden, bouncing after butterflies. That looked far more fun than huddling around a dining table and watching Wensleydale argue with Pepper about how to word an email.

"You  _ have  _ to say it's from all of us so she knows that we're all worried." Pepper insisted.

"I have said that! Look." Wensleydale pointed at the words on the screen. "'I am writing on behalf of Adam, Brian, Pepper, and myself.' that means she knows it's all of us."

"Are you fourteen or forty?"

"I'm actually thirteen and you know it."

Brian stood to one side, digging at something under his fingernails and not adding much to proceedings. Adam supposed it was going to be up to him to solve things again, just like it always was.

"I think it's more important that we send the message than squabble about who it's from." He used the voice he'd learned from his dad to get their attention.

Wensleydale appeared to consider this a win and made a face at Pepper. During the resulting gurning contest, Adam read the email they'd written one more time.

Dear Anathema,

I am writing on behalf of Adam, Brian, Pepper, and myself. We hope you are well and enjoying your adventures. We really like the postcards.

We're writing because we're worried about Crowley. As you know, he left Aziraphale a year ago and no-one has seen him since. We really miss him and we're worried about what has happened to him. Can you do anything to help? Can you use your witch powers or do a summoning? Adam wants to invite Crowley to his birthday.

Hope we see you soon.

Lots of love,

Wensleydale, Adam, Pepper and Brian.

It was way too formal to have come from anyone but Wensley, but it said what it needed to and that was better than nothing. Adam reached over Wensley's shoulder and pressed send.

It would be a few hours before Anathema saw the email, checking her phone over breakfast. She sucked air in over her teeth, eyes narrowing in annoyance.

"Are you kidding me?" Her tone made Newt wince. "You complete bastard!"

Crowley looked at her over his glasses.

"Me?"


	7. A Coward Might Call It A Conscience

Crowley had fully intended to sleep for as many years as he could manage. He'd set his affairs in order and made sure that he wouldn't be disturbed so that he could ignore the heart-shattering grief that gripped him. If he was asleep, he wouldn't be tempted to check up on Aziraphale, he wouldn't feel the need to torture himself by seeing how his angel carried on without him, he certainly wouldn't be able to go rushing back to Aziraphale and risk damning him for all eternity. Yes, it would hurt Aziraphale to be so suddenly cut off from Crowley, but it was for the best. That was the one thing that Crowley was certain of.

So it was something of a problem that he couldn't sleep. Crowley was as drunk as he'd ever been, so depressed that he could barely lift his arms, and he couldn't sleep for more than 36 hours at a time. He entered a cycle of sleeping, waking, drinking, and crying. Every conscious moment was haunted with the last memory he had of Aziraphale, begging him not to leave. When he did manage to drift off or pass out, whichever came first, he dreamed in shapeless voids, the stink of sulphur filling his lungs. Then he would wake, sweating and shaking with Aziraphale's pained pleas back in the forefront of his mind.

Eventually, Crowley embraced his suffering. He could recognise when he was being punished, especially when he deserved it. He had nearly ruined Aziraphale, he had tarnished the best and most pure thing he had ever known just by existing near him. Of course, Crowley deserved to suffer, he had earnt his pain. He tried to exist in London, hermitting himself away from the world as much as possible and drinking until he could barely feel his screaming soul. As he had predicted, the urge to check in on Aziraphale was too strong. It pulled him into the Bentley, out of London and into Sussex more than once. It was too dangerous.

There was a whole world outside of London, he should be able to make a home anywhere, and so he left. Crowley travelled extensively, seeing the world and waiting to feel that tug, that in-the-bones sensation of belonging that told him he was home. It never came and although he refused to give it words, Crowley knew why. He had a home and he could never return.

In a bar in Washington DC, Crowley sheltered from a rainstorm and wept into a glass of whiskey. He had tried to hide, he had tried to run, still, he spent every second with a knife through his heart. This hurt worse than his Fall but he could bear it if he had to, for Aziraphale's sake. A pair of lobbyists with expensive suits and more expensive smiles took a table nearby. Crowley allowed himself to be distracted by their careless talk.

They were celebrating getting a senator in their pocket, someone powerful and previously considered untouchable. It had been hard and dirty work but now they could begin to reap the benefits. Crowley felt his stomach turn, hearing the men boast about corrupting one of the precious few honourable politicians in the world. Before he could think about what he was doing, Crowley implanted some knowledge in their minds; an unshakeable truth of the implications of their actions and the lives that would be ruined. Their shrivelled and atrophied moral cores cried out, weakly protesting the cost, Crowley amplified them. They blanched in unison, eyes wide with horror and disgust. Chairs fell as they scrambled to their feet, to the door, for their phones. There was still time to undo what had been started.

For the first time in months, Crowley felt the pain of existence lessen. Just a touch and only for a moment, but it did. He nearly cried out with the joy of it.

"Is that it then? I'm denied the oblivion of sleep or the comfort of love, but you'll have me influence humanity. If that's how it is, fine, but keep him safe. You protect him from the rest of your creation and I'll do what I can."

He didn't refer to Her by name, or even really believe that She was listening, but he needed something to cling to. Some kind of idea that he was helping something better than himself.

Crowley finished his drink and left the bar to hail a cab. The rain had stopped, at last, he noticed on the way to the airport, a strong rainbow made the city almost beautiful for once.

It wasn't much of a plan, truth be told, but Crowley had always preferred to be guided by instinct, to do what felt right in the moment. He stared at the departures board, waiting for a destination to leap out at him. Deciding that Tokyo sounded like fun, he sauntered towards departures. Things like boarding passes and passports and reservations would sort themselves out purely because Crowley expected them to. 

In Japan, he found protests about whaling and a whole generation working themselves to death. This wasn't so different to temptations, when it came right down to it, just planting an idea and giving it a little nudge to grow into whatever shape best fulfilled Crowley's intention. He inspired workforce negotiators and softened executives, he opened eyes to the cost of mindless ambition.

Touch by gentle touch, Crowley set off well-placed ripples that would spread through multinational corporations and beyond. The same hand that had sown countless frustrations and inconveniences turned to smooth over the bumps of everyday life for those overworked and overstressed workers that he encountered.

Crowley ran into Anathema and Newt at an anti-whaling rally. Without the religious devotion to a book of prophecy, Anathema had been left to find her own way forward and with a substantial fortune available to her, she took to the world aiming to add her voice and influence to those fighting for the voiceless. Newton only ever needed a star to follow and was bright, inspiring, and rather happy to have the company. As reunions go, this was a short one. Crowley was unwilling to divulge his recent history and only gave enough to reassure Anathema that he was on her side in the protest.

Two weeks later, Crowley was in New Delhi slinking around and working out who he needed to prod at when someone walked into him with enough force to send him reeling. Newt apologised profusely, and then again after recognising Crowley. On this occasion he allowed the couple to buy him a drink. They met again in Moscow at an LGBT+ rights demonstration. Then again in Milan during a conference of world leaders. It was in Toronto, where Anathema and Newt were part of an indigenous rights rally and Crowley was convincing oil execs that pipelines were a bad investment, that Anathema finally wheedled the truth out of Crowley. Or at least part of it. He wouldn't tell them about the angel he'd met, or the danger to Aziraphale. Anathema seemed incredulous that Crowley would walk out on Aziraphale for any reason, let alone because he was  _ bored _ .

Fate or coincidence was continuing to push them all together. Crowley liked to think that he had been on Earth long enough to recognise when something ineffable was happening so he didn’t resist when Anathema suggested that, at the very least, they exchange contact details and keep in touch about their intended movements. He was reluctant to agree to travelling together until the next day when he found himself seated beside Newt on his flight to Los Angeles. Newt’s apologetic smile softened the sting of Anathema’s laughter when she saw him.

Now they were in Brazil, looking to use their influence to prevent the destruction of the Amazon rainforest. Mention of Aziraphale was strictly forbidden but curiosity itched at Anathema so it was still a favoured topic between her and Newt at night before sleep and Crowley pretended not to know. This email from the Them strayed dangerously close to uncomfortable territory for Crowley.

He hadn’t considered that they would miss him. He’d become so used to thinking of himself as a nuisance and bad influence that the idea of being missed was alien. As he read the email on Anathema’s phone, his jaw hanging slack, she threw a grape at his head which struck him wetly in the temple.

“Are you going to tell them why you cut them out?” Anathema was relentless.

Crowley looked at her over his glasses, his mouth a thin line of disapproval. Sometimes these humans got a little too comfortable around him and needed a reminder that they had an actual demon from Hell as a travel companion. The look on Anathema’s face told him quite plainly that she knew and didn’t care.

“I guess I’ll go for a visit. Don’t tell them, though.” He handed the phone back. “Tell them you’ll see what you can do or whatever. Let me surprise them.”

“We could go together. It  _ is _ his birthday soon.” She suggested.

Crowley grimaced, he didn’t need any help in remembering the date. He knew the passing of every second since he had last seen Aziraphale, tear-streaked and broken. He nodded sharply and excused himself from the table.

“What’s happening? Who are we visiting? What are you two talking about?” Newt asked Crowley’s retreating back and Anathema’s quiet smirk but neither responded.

Crowley refused to even consider arriving on Adam’s birthday. The chance of Aziraphale being in attendance was far too high. Birthdays and Christmases had become as much of a tradition as it was possible to become in two years and Crowley knew in his bones that Aziraphale wouldn’t let Adam suffer for Crowley’s cruelty. 

Anathema tried so many tacks to prise open Crowley’s explanations, to get him to reveal the circumstances that had driven him from the home he’d made, but he was as silent as ever on the matter. If Anathema hoped that being back in familiar surroundings would loosen his lips, she was to be disappointed.

They arrived in Tadfield four days before Adam’s birthday, gifts in hand. Crowley was delighted to be back in the Bentley, tearing up the roads between London and Oxfordshire’s most remarkably normal village just like the old days. He parked by the Youngs’ but went straight into the woods, knowing that Adam wouldn’t be at home on a sunny day in August. Newt had hovered anxiously by the car until Anathema agreed to at least say hello to Mr and Mrs Young before following Crowley to Adam.

Crowley felt a familiar presence before he could see anything of the Them. The infernal similarities in their make-up called to each other, letting Crowley know that Dog was with the Them, sat calmly by Adam’s feet, resting his head on his paws. He felt Dog notice his approach and almost immediately had the smallest hellhound bounding towards him, barking up a riot. He was soon joined by the rest of the Them although, as teenagers, they were all far too cool to scream excitedly or fight over who got to hug Crowley first. That was the version that they all agreed to by the time that Anathema and Newt turned up ten minutes later.

Being with the children, seeing how much had changed in just one year, Crowley knew he’d made a mistake. Of course, he had missed them, of course, he had been thinking about them, of course, he hadn’t needed to close off his whole heart from the world. He told them all about the work he’d been doing, the choices he was influencing around the world whilst Anathema added her weight to protests, funding worthy campaigns, and occasionally asking Newt to log in to a corporate website or two.

Their methods might be unorthodox or even unattainable by most standards, but Crowley felt sure that they were doing good and setting a decent example for Adam. If he got nothing else from this dramatic recounting of their deeds, Crowley hoped that he would understand that no matter where a gift comes from, it’s how you use it that matters.

Anathema declared that she was going to treat everyone to ice cream and started an expedition to the village shop. Crowley hung back, bringing up the rear of the group with Dog bouncing at his feet. Adam looked around for Dog and seemed to recognise Crowley’s intention. Leaving Pepper to continue questioning Anathema on whales, he waited until Crowley caught up and then fell into step with him.

“I’m glad you came back,” Adam said quietly.

“So am I. I had thought, maybe, you were better off if I was gone,” Crowley admitted. “I never thought you’d miss me.”

Adam looked at him with all the cynical wisdom of an almost-14-year-old and sighed.

“We’ve all missed you.” A measured pause. “Especially Aziraphale.”

Crowley froze in his tracks. On another plane, a snowy feather tucked into an ebony wing seemed to jab him. He barely felt it over the searing pain that shot through his heart.

“Don’t,” He swallowed the hissing rage before it lashed out at an innocent victim. “Don’t say that name.”

“Right, sorry,” Adam walked on, looking at his feet.

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists at his sides, willing the torment to pass. He’d been getting better, been feeling easier these past few months. Hearing Aziraphale’s name used so casually made the wound feel as fresh as ever. He wanted a drink so badly that he could feel his tongue grow thick and heavy in his mouth.

In a few long strides, he had caught up with Adam again.

“Does- Does he ever ask about me?” Crowley’s voice was barely a whisper.

Adam looked up at him, surprised. Crowley thought about taking off his sunglasses and showing the sincerity of the question, but it was too much, too raw, too naked. He stayed hidden.

“Every time I see him,” Adam answered, cautiously.

“Is that,” Crowley’s voice cracked. “Often?” He couldn’t keep the hope out of his voice.

“Uh, yeah. At least once a month. Sometimes more.”

They walked in silence for a minute, a hundred unasked questions burning between them. Ahead, Wensleydale screeched at Newt’s retelling of how he had accidentally brought down all the cybersecurity at a well-known multinational corporation suspected of highly unethical practices. The outage had allowed some particularly skilled hackers to gain access to a collection of damning files. The court proceedings were ongoing.

Crowley started to speak several times but slammed his mouth shut after each aborted syllable. At the edge of the woods, Adam took pity on him.

“What do you want, Crowley?”

The easy simplicity of the question felt like claws twisting in Crowley’s stomach. Asked as if there was an answer that could be expressed in words, as if there was an answer that could encompass all of what Crowley wanted. He felt sick at the sudden knowledge that the answer  _ was _ simple, it was the telling that was impossible. He wanted Aziraphale, wanted him to be safe and happy and free of the trauma of a Fall. Crowley couldn’t care about whether that version of Aziraphale had Crowley in his life or not. Of course, he wanted to be with Aziraphale more than anything, but his desire just didn’t compare to the importance of keeping Aziraphale safe. Breaking both their hearts was a hard price to pay and yet Crowley couldn’t find it in him to regret it.

Unbidden, Crowley was flooded with memories of smells, images and sensations. Burning feathers and flesh, the light of Heaven shrinking ever smaller as his own hands reached for it, a soul-deep pain that split his essence from the Host and left him so very alone.

“Crowley?” Adam’s voice snapped Crowley back to the present.

He was sat on the bench in front of the village shop and his hands were shaking. Adam was watching him, concerned. Even Dog had his ears flattened in a display of discomfort.

“I want him to be safe, Adam. That’s what I want, no, what I  _ need.” _

“What does that mean, though?”

Then Pepper was pressing an ice cream cone into Crowley’s hand and Anathema chucked bits of dry wafer cone for Dog and the moment was lost. Crowley was grateful for the distraction as he watched Adam being drawn into a debate about whether it was better to have a chocolate flake or bubblegum sauce on ice cream. He had been so close to admitting the whole truth to Adam, to undoing the past year of self-control. He would need to be more careful about what he said to the boy.


	8. Would Things Have Changed If I Could Have Stayed?

As Crowley had predicted, Aziraphale arrived in Lower Tadfield on the morning of Adam’s 14th birthday and spent the day flitting between the Them and Adam’s parents. There was the faintest tang in the air, something familiar but diluted beyond recognition, that had Aziraphale quite out of sorts. He also was getting the distinct impression that Adam was avoiding him. There was never a moment where the two might exchange a quiet word, or conduct their customary check-in. 

Becoming concerned that Adam was hiding something with potentially world-altering consequences, Aziraphale finally took matters into his own hands. Sitting in the garden of 4 Hogback Lane, a glass of lemonade in one hand and listening to Arthur and Deirdre coo over the new tricks that Adam had been teaching Dog, Aziraphale gently encouraged the adult Youngs to succumb to a little nap in the sun.

“Why are you avoiding me, Adam?”

Adam looked at him, glancing at his parents and back to Aziraphale with a resigned understanding. He sat on the grass in front of Aziraphale and started digging a little hole with a stick.

“I’m not.”

Aziraphale gave a hum of disbelief but Adam didn’t look up from his digging.

“You were most assuredly making it so that you and I couldn’t converse in private today. I do notice these things, you know.”

“Didn’t do a very good job then, did I?” Adam sounded sullen.

“I’ve had a bit more practice at getting what I want. Don’t feel badly about it.” Aziraphale relaxed his tone from chiding to comforting. “Why don’t you tell me what’s been troubling you?”

Adam looked up then, visibly weighing his options.

“I saw Crowley.” He said after a long pause. “He visited last week.”

It was the one thing that Aziraphale had been least prepared for. He would have been better able to hear the news that a second Armageddon was coming.

“You look like a goldfish when you do that.”

Aziraphale closed his mouth, now aware that he had momentarily lost control of his face. The realisation hit him fairly softly; the tang in the air, the familiar feeling, it was Crowley. He took a deep breath, drawing in as much air as he could as if he could filter the Crowley out of it and keep part of him inside. His eyes fluttered closed, filled with memories of cold evenings in front of their fireplace, of shared meals and laughed conversations, of gentle kisses and loving looks. Tears ran down his cheeks but he made no effort to stop them.

“How was he? Is he doing alright?”

* * *

That evening, being back in the house was just ever so slightly less painful. Maybe Crowley would never come home to him, maybe they would never split another bottle of wine, but now Aziraphale knew that Crowley was still out in the world. He was free and safe, nothing mattered more than that.

A new kind of normal settled over life during the following months. Aziraphale continued his monthly visits but with less melancholy than he had previously carried. Crowley stayed in touch, setting up a group chat as soon as the Them had each acquired smartphones. He visited less often and not on any kind of schedule, popping in and out whenever the mood struck him. Anathema and Newt continued to travel with Crowley, always looking for the next cause to run up the metaphorical flagpole. Where it mattered, the humans were happy. Only an angel, a demon, and an ex-Antichrist were still troubled by the current state of affairs.

* * *

Adam lay awake one night, Dog snoring little doggy wheezes by his feet, turning the problem over in his head. He’d been mulling it over for months and was still no closer to understanding what had caused Crowley to leave them all for a year. He knew that there was something in the way that Crowley had admitted that what he wanted more than anything was for Aziraphale to be safe, but safe from what? That was the question at the heart of the matter, Adam was convinced of it. He had no idea how he was going to get the answer; Crowley flatly refused to discuss it whenever Adam asked. The rest of the Them weren’t really interested in working it out any more, not now that Crowley had reappeared.

“Sometimes people just break up,” Brian said the next time Adam brought the topic up.

Brian had had a girlfriend for 12 days at the end of June and now fancied himself as something of an expert in relationships. It was only out of kindness that no one mentioned the three days he’d spent crying when Emily had given him a note saying she wanted to focus on school instead.

“They aren’t actually people,” Wensley added, redundantly.

“Yes, yes, I know all that. I just don’t like not knowing what happened; I know that Crowley lied about why he was leaving, but why? And what was his real reason?” Adam didn’t want to get sidetracked.

Pepper sighed and sat up from the log she’d been lazing on.

“Why does it matter? It’s really not any of our business.” She sounded annoyed.

Adam resigned himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to get any help from his friends and continued to think it over whenever the opportunity arose.

In mid-November, on a Friday, Anathema came to Lower Tadfield on her own. Newt was visiting his mum and Anathema had thought that maybe they would like some time together without her getting under their feet. This thought may have been strongly influenced by a slew of passive-aggressive comments and eye-rolling from Mrs Pulsifer, but that is hardly important. She had a room at the guest house for the night and it was still just about mild enough to take a walk around the village without freezing her fingers off. Anathema found herself at the school gates just as the final bell rang, streams of kids began pouring out, wrapped in coats and scarves for the walk home. Just as she spotted Pepper and went to wave, someone called her name. Adam was speeding towards her, still pulling his coat on and dragging his backpack in one hand.

“Anathema! I didn’t know you were coming!” He dropped his bag and hugged her. “I really want to talk to you about something.”

The hug was a surprise, Adam wasn’t usually this demonstrative in his affection. She returned it awkwardly, noting the almost negligible difference in their heights.

“OK Adam, it’s good to see you too. Shall we go somewhere a bit warmer?”

He nodded and pulled his phone from his pocket.

“I’ll just let mum know that I’m with you so she won’t worry.”

He was still such a sweet kid, Anathema thought warmly.

“There’s a tea-room just down the road, we could go there?” Adam suggested.

Anathema agreed and let him lead the way, both stuffing their hands into their pockets, hunting for warmth.

The tea-room was quiet this near closing time. Anathema bought them each a hot chocolate and joined Adam at a little table in the corner, ignoring the somewhat pleading looks from the owner.

“What is it you wanted to talk about, Adam?”

He paused in drowning his marshmallows, holding them under the surface with his spoon, and looked at Anathema with the face of a teenager who has been told to mind his own business too many times.

“Do you know why Crowley left?” He asks like it’s a forbidden question which, Anathema supposes, it kind of is.

“No. Crowley’s been shut up tighter than a barn door in a storm for months. He won’t tell me anything.” She shook her head as she answered. “How about you?”

“Nuh-uh.” Adam licked chocolate foam off his spoon. “It seems wrong to me, them being split up.”

Anathema leaned in conspiratorially.

“I do have some theories. We should share information.”

“Yeah! I bet we could work it out together. Solve the mystery?”

That was all it took. Adam and Anathema had both found the perfect gossip and rumour partner in each other. In the time it took to drink their hot chocolates and walk back to Adam’s house, they exchanged everything they knew about the split. Adam filled Anathema in on what he’d been told by Aziraphale the previous summer, and she presented the precious few snippets of information that Crowley had let slip during their travels.

Anathema was invited for dinner by a delighted Deirdre and, under the guise of helping him with his homework, Adam and Anathema took over the dining room table with notes and timelines. These weren’t strictly necessary but Adam said it made the whole thing feel more like a real mystery so Anathema went along with it.

Before they were instructed to clear the table, the pair had actually achieved very little. They knew that Crowley had gone to London to sell his flat and when he came back, he’d told Aziraphale that he was bored of living with him and walked out. Adam had also coaxed out the information that Crowley had said that he had never loved Aziraphale and that he wasn’t capable of it. Anathema felt a bit bad about laughing at this but it was just so patently false. Crowley loved on a scale so grand that she often felt overwhelmed, and he wasn’t even that  _ fond _ of her! Also in their pile of facts was the knowledge that Crowley was concerned with Aziraphale’s safety in a way that suggested there was a danger.

After a very pleasant dinner of spaghetti bolognese, Anathema thanked the Youngs and made her way back to the guest house with one thought bouncing around her skull. What was Crowley trying to protect Aziraphale from? That, she felt certain, was the key to the mystery.

The next day was Saturday, which meant spending time with the whole gang or none of them, there was no in-between. Anathema, of course, chose to spend her morning with the Them in their woodland den. She had hoped to be able to continue her conversation with Adam but it appeared that the ineffable split was an off-limits topic for the group. It wasn’t until they all traipsed home for lunch that she was able to catch Adam alone.

“Adam, I’ve been thinking,” She said once the others had split off for their respective homes. “Crowley’s not the type to get worried for no reason and we’ve both heard him mention things about keeping Aziraphale safe. I think we need to be looking out for clues around that, about what he’s protecting Aziraphale from.”

Adam’s eyes lit up with delight, most likely from realising that his mystery-solving partner was as obsessed as he was.

“You’re right. I’ve been thinking the same thing!”

And so something that was too shapeless to be called a plan and too vague to be a scheme was born. If it changed nothing else, at least they would be able to tell Aziraphale why he had been abandoned.


	9. Broken, This Fragile Thing Now

Despite himself, Crowley had a soft spot for Christmas. He liked the lights and the gifts and the feeling of community, he also liked the way that almost every family was one ill-timed word away from a full-on screaming row. It was a time of great potential, balanced on a knife-edge. Plus there was always a lot of drinking, something that he was partaking in more than he’d like to admit. Good deeds only dulled his pain so much, alcohol kept things bearable for him.

Three days before Christmas, Crowley was speeding along the Oxfordshire roads in his Bentley with a boot full of gifts and a bit of tinsel tied around his half ponytail. He was in the best mood he’d been in for months and was even whistling along to the radio when he pulled into Tadfield village square. Anathema and Newt were in the US, celebrating with the Device family, Adam had assured Crowley that Aziraphale wasn’t due to visit until Christmas Eve so he was enjoying his own company and the carefree feeling of having no one else to worry about.

That bitter undercurrent that constantly reminded him of where he should be, of what he was missing, it was almost background noise that he could pretend to ignore; like tinnitus that would slowly drive you mad. It was a problem for another day, he would enjoy days like this as best he could.

The Christmas holiday had started but it was too cold for the Them to be outside. Crowley found them playing video games at Brian’s house and quickly joined in. He wasn’t very good at the racing game that they were playing but it was all fun anyway; for once he found that he didn’t mind losing every time. When it started to get dark, Crowley took Pepper, Wensleydale and Adam home from Brian’s, leaving each of them with a pile of gifts and getting a hug in return. Finally, he had only Adam left in the car and the boot of the Bentley was back to its manufacturer specifications. 

“Where are you spending Christmas, Crowley?” Adam asked suddenly.

“Huh? Oh, uh, just in London. I like the feel of it there.”

“You could spend it with us if you wanted.”

Crowley looked over his glasses at Adam who was facing straight forward.

“You know that’s not an option.” Crowley pulled up next to the kerb and killed the engine.

“What are you afraid of?” Adam looked at him now, his eyes strangely compelling.

“Oh, not you too!” Crowley rested his forehead against the top of the steering wheel. “Anathema has been on at me about this as well. You  _ know _ I don’t want to talk about it. Things are going alright, aren’t they? You’ve got people around you who care and understand, right? Why does it matter where I live or who I love or what I’m protecting him from?”

An uncomfortable silence gripped them, Crowley had said more than he had intended to and now he didn’t trust his mouth not to make things worse.

“I’m sorry,” Adam sounded far smaller than he had in a long time.

“Ugh, no, Adam I’m sorry.” Crowley reached across the car to rest his hand on Adam’s shoulder. “This just isn’t something you can help with, it’s bigger than any of us. And, um, look. If Aziraphale knew the truth then it would all have been pointless. Please, just stop asking me for things I can’t give.”

Adam nodded and opened his door. Crowley felt the last of his good mood slip away as Adam climbed out of the car. He rushed out and round to the back of the Bentley, gathering the remaining gifts for Adam and his family. There was even a little something for Dog. Adam took some of the pile and carried them inside next to Crowley. Deirdre directed them in stacking the presents under the tree, real as always, Crowley noted with more longing than he’d like to admit.

Crowley said his goodbyes, not wanting to stay a minute longer with his torment. As they stood at the front door, Adam pressed a package into his hands. It was wrapped in that style that only 14-year-old boys can manage; with almost as much tape as paper and still barely held together. Crowley smiled and held it to his chest on the short walk to the car.

As soon as Adam heard the Bentley pull away, he pulled his phone from his pocket and fired off a message to Anathema. 

"Crowley admitted he's protecting A by leaving. Think it must be a threat from Up or Down. Will see what A knows. Say hi to Newt!" 

Her response came through much later that night. 

"Good work! That confirms what we've suspected. Keep me updated!" 

A photo of Newt standing awkwardly next to a large, tastefully decorated Christmas tree popped up straight after. He was wearing a reindeer jumper with bells sewn on the antlers and an illuminated nose. Naturally, Adam forwarded it to the main group chat as soon as he'd stopped laughing.

Christmas without Crowley just didn't feel right to Aziraphale, nevertheless, he put on his brightest smile and did his best to show the Youngs that he appreciated their hospitality. He'd noticed the lingering feeling of Crowley's presence in the house before he saw the pile of presents under the tree. There were precious few people in the world who would use Hallowe'en stickers as labels on Christmas presents. In spite of himself, Aziraphale was pleased. Whatever had happened between the two of them hadn't had a lasting impact on Crowley's relationship with Adam and the Them. 

With great force of will, Aziraphale didn't go looking through the presents to see if there was one for him. He knew the answer just as well as he knew there was a solitary box under his own tree at home. If Crowley had even thought of Aziraphale this year, he wouldn't have shown it so readily. 

For the first time in years, Aziraphale went to midnight mass after impulsively accepting Arthur’s invitation to join him. Even knowing that God’s presence was as strong in a church as it is in a sunrise or a lover’s kiss, Aziraphale found himself moved by the service. The divine love that held him together felt like a comfort instead of a burden. He took communion and gave his thanks for the continued existence of the world.

The day itself went as well as could be hoped, gifts were opened and appreciated, Arthur laughed at every cracker joke as if it were the peak of comedy, Deirdre's turkey was delicious, and Adam found the sixpence in the pudding despite the fact that no-one had added it during the making. Naturally, Aziraphale insisted on cleaning up after dinner and only used a miracle to put everything away in the right cupboard when he was done. 

Arthur was finishing up with connecting Adam's new game console to the television when Aziraphale emerged from the kitchen. Despite his protestations, Aziraphale found himself holding a strange plastic gizmo as Adam explained the buttons and helped him pick a character. The four of them awkwardly fumbled through the first round, with Adam picking up the gist fastest. 

The game was some kind of all-out brawl which struck Aziraphale as rather more violent than he liked, but he was playing as an adorable pink pillow creature whose major move appeared to be eating. Adam won the second round but, in a move that shocked everyone, Aziraphale won the third. After a couple more rounds, Arthur and Deirdre retired from the game. Arthur soon fell asleep in his armchair and Deirdre went to call her sister to wish her a Merry Christmas and check on the rest of the family.

"Did you send anything to Anathema and Newt?" Adam asked out of nowhere.

"Sorry? Oh, yes. I found a book on early religions in South America that I thought she would enjoy and Newt asked for a new set of luggage. It seems his last suitcase got chewed up by an X-ray machine.”

Adam made a face.

“Those are boring, grown-up presents.”

“I suppose we’re all just boring grown-ups then!” Aziraphale laughed as his round, pink character swallowed the little yellow creature that Adam was controlling.

“What about Crowley?”

“Yes, he’s probably a boring grown-up as well, at least as far as you’re concerned.”

Adam paused the game and turned to look at Aziraphale.

“That isn’t what I meant.”

Aziraphale put the game controller on the coffee table and returned Adam’s pointed gaze.

“No, I didn’t send Crowley anything. I wouldn’t know where to send anything even if it was appropriate.” Recognising that he was starting to sound snippy, Aziraphale took a breath to calm himself. “Adam, I am delighted that Crowley has reappeared and is actively in your life again, I truly am, but he has made his feelings very clear. This isn’t something that you need to worry about.” He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“What if he was lying? What if he was trying to protect you from something?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes and tilted his face upwards as if he could will back the tears that prickled under his eyelids.

“Adam,  _ please _ .”

A moment of silence passed between them, Aziraphale’s pained plea staining the air with more vulnerability than he’d ever shown in front of Adam before.

“I’m still going to beat you.” Adam started the game back up and used the seconds it took Aziraphale to snatch back his controller to knock his character off the platform.

“Oh, you are asking for a serious butt-kicking!”

It was a pleasant day overall. Aziraphale couldn’t blame Adam for trying to fix whatever had gone wrong between Crowley and himself, and he really was a good child with kind intentions. As Aziraphale lay in the little-used guest bedroom that night, trying to remember how to sleep, he found himself focusing on one thing that Adam had said. What if Crowley was trying to protect him? Where Adam might have got an idea like that and what he thought Aziraphale might need protecting from were a mystery even to him. 

Heaven and Hell had stayed well away from them and, surely, if there was something that was worrying Crowley, he would have spoken to Aziraphale about it? That thought made Aziraphale laugh in a sharp bark that he covered with a cough. Crowley, willingly talking about something bothering him without fretting and sulking for at least a week before? Absurd! But he’d been fine, he’d gone to London for little more than a day and been in reasonably good spirits by the time Aziraphale had got home from the Polks’ house. He could still picture him as clear as day, just as he’d found him in the garden that afternoon; dirt up to his elbows and on his face, sunglasses slightly askew, and just exuding love. 

The next morning it had all been different, there had been no sign of anything weighing on him until it was all too late. Sleep started to claim Aziraphale just as he decided that he should finally get the garden back under control.


	10. A Simple Prop To Occupy My Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! I managed to put chapters up out of order! My deepest apologies

Crowley saw in the New Year with Anathema and Newt on a cruise ship bound for Cuba. He made good use of the quality rum available and was roaring drunk in time for the midnight countdown. Anathema had foolishly been matching him drink for drink earlier in the evening and was now passed out, slumped over a table with her hair in something sticky. Crowley had jumped up on the bar to lead the passengers and crew in a round of Auld Lang Syne only to find that no-one on this side of the Atlantic considered knowledge of the lyrics quite as essential as he did. Newt offered his hand for support as Crowley clambered down from his perch.

“I was singing along,” he offered.

“I know, y’good lad. Y’good.” Crowley slurred heavily and nearly fell onto Newt’s shoulder. “It’s all th’rest of ‘em. Lettin’ yer down.” He pulled his glasses down and gave the whole bar a filthy look.

“OK, let’s get you sitting down.” Newt lead Crowley to the table where Anathema was snoring with half a maraschino cherry between her teeth.

“Look a’her. Lightweight. Psht! Can’t handle rum like me.” Crowley grinned rather wider than most humans would consider possible.

“No one can handle rum like you, Crowley. And even you are barely handling the amount you’ve got in you.”

Crowley looked at Newt and then closed one eye so he could pick which Newt to look at.

“Why are you ssssober?” The table lurched suddenly so Crowley held on to it for safety.

“I saw this one,” Newt nodded towards Anathema. “Claiming that she could drink you under the table and realised that someone else was going to have to be the adult tonight.”

Crowley laughed until he snorted.

“Look at you two. Lookin’ after each other. Stayin’ togever through it all. S’special. Y’know?”

“I know, I’m really lucky.” Newt hooked the cherry out of Anathema’s mouth before she could choke on it. “I really think there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her safe and happy.”

“Sometimes you can’t have both.” Crowley felt maudlin all of a sudden. “Sometimes just safe is the best you can do.”

He tried to stand up but the floor was at a funny angle and his legs were even less cooperative than usual. He flopped back into his seat.

“I don’t know, I don’t think there’s much that Anathema and I couldn’t work through together.”

“Thas what I thought about me and, y’know,  _ him. _ ” Crowley couldn’t make his mouth say the name without a great deal of pain. “Thought we could get through anything. I mean, got through bloody Armagedin, din’ we? Then that  _ angel _ ,” He spat the word. “Had to show up and ruin everything. And the only way to keep him safe was to just,  _ poof _ , disappear.” Crowley did a sloppy approximation of Aziraphale’s magician flourish.

Newt put his hand on Crowley’s arm in sympathy. Crowley looked down at it like it was a large spider that had just crawled up and introduced itself by name. Newt snatched his hand back.

“Sorry about that. I, uh, it felt like the thing to do.”

“Nah, y’alright. Just don’t get touched a lot any more.” He tried not to sound get so broken about it. “I’m gonna go to my cabin and sleep this off.” Crowley pushed himself up and leaned heavily into the wall for support.

Newt watched him go, casually brushing his fingers over Anathema’s hair until she stirred and started to sit up.

“Come on sweetheart, let’s get you a nice big glass of water and some paracetamol. You’re going to want a clear head for what I’ve got to tell you.”

If Crowley remembered any of what he’d told Newt that night, he never mentioned it. Which, when you get right down to it, could also be interpreted as pretending it never happened. So Newt honoured this unspoken agreement or mental lapse and didn’t mention it back to Crowley. He did, however, tell Anathema. And Anathema only had to wait to get service on her phone before she told Adam. These little scraps of information didn’t build a particularly clear picture, but they did eliminate a lot of possibilities. The mystery-solving gang knew that whatever had caused Crowley to leave had come from Heaven, a message delivered by an angel. It was definitely something that he felt he couldn’t tell Aziraphale about and that the alternative was something he considered worse than the pain they were both suffering.

The group chat was alive with theories about the nature of this heavenly messenger, even the rest of the Them allowed themselves to be drawn back into the debates once it became clear that there was more going on than just boring adult drama.

**Pepper:**

So, we’re telling Aziraphale, right?

**Anathema:**

I think so, he’s the only one who will know what to do

**Brian:**

I’m not doing it

**Wensley:**

Same

**Pepper:**

Obviously not you two. Honestly

**Newt:**

sjketgn;ern

**Newt:**

Sorry, dropped my phone.

**Adam:**

Newt should do it

**Newt:**

You’re very funny!

**Anathema:**

I think he’s right

**Newt:**

You would. Are we forgetting that Crowley would just kill me?

**Brian:**

It’s true. He would.

**Brian:**

Newt should definitely do it

**Newt:**

Anathema, take Brian off the Christmas list, yeah?

**Anathema:**

Double presents for Brian, got it.

**Pepper:**

:eyeroll: Newt, we won’t let Crowley kill you.

**Wensley:**

Nothing worse than light torture, for sure

**Adam:**

Yeah, we’re not animals

**Anathema:**

He’s coming back, we gotta go. Catch you later, gang!

Later that week, Anathema called Adam during some rare time away from Newt and Crowley. Adam answered the call, sat cross-legged on his bed with Dog resting his head on one knee. Anathema’s face filled the screen of his phone, she looked hurried.

“Hey Adam, I don’t have long but I wanted to check in about Aziraphale. I think you’re totally right that the news has to come from Newt so we need to get them in the same place.”

Adam smiled, she was always straight to business.

“I might have a solution to that. At Christmas, Aziraphale mentioned that he was going to try and tidy up the garden again, that it’d got all overgrown since Crowley left. He definitely wouldn’t want to use a miracle on it, knowing how important good plant care is to Crowley, so maybe Newt could offer to help? Aziraphale isn’t going to know what to do with a lawnmower, is he?” Adam pulled a face to show exactly what he thought about Aziraphale trying to operate any kind of machinery.

Anathema giggled and pushed her glasses back up her nose.

“I don’t think Newt breaks machinery in the same way he does with computers. Yeah, yeah I think that could work. Well done, Adam! I’ll see what I can get set up.” She turned to look over her shoulder at something that Adam couldn’t see. “Don’t worry, Newt knows it has to be him. He won’t let us down.”

“I know he won’t. He cares too much.”

Anathema smiled her soft, thoughtful smile.

“Yeah, he does. I’ll let you know when we’ve got a plan in place. Chat later!”

Adam barely had time to say goodbye before Anathema had hung up. He put his phone down on the bed and flopped backwards, Dog shuffled up to lay beside him.

“This is the right thing, isn’t it? Aziraphale deserves the truth, even if it doesn’t change anything.” Adam’s fingers worried at the hem of his t-shirt.

Dog’s only answer was a gentle huff of a sigh which didn’t really help Adam at all, but at least he wasn’t alone.

Gardening in late January had to be one of the strangest things that Newton Pulsifer had let the love of his life talk him into. Considering their shared history, he supposed that perhaps his definition of strange was a little off-kilter with the rest of humanity. Perhaps to rephrase, helping an actual, real-life angel clear an overgrown garden that had been tended by an actual, real-life demon was pretty strange regardless of the time of year. Anathema had been insistent that he would have to make the offer himself, to contact Aziraphale personally just to casually offer to help run the hedge trimmers and drive the waste to the tip. Newt was making one such drive now, his rental van full of dead branches and uprooted weeds.

Not for the first time, Newt regretted telling Anathema about the conversation he’d had with Crowley in the early hours of New Year’s Day. Nothing had been explicitly said about keeping it a secret, but Crowley never opened up like that, least of all to Newt. He had been drunk, off-guard, and maudlin, it was unfair to use his vulnerability for their own gain. 

Newt also would have preferred to be wherever Anathema was, doing whatever it was that she had planned to keep Crowley distracted while Newt executed his part of the plan.

His time with Aziraphale brought some facts into sharp relief. Newt missed the company of other humans, missed being a person who didn’t have to think of his friends in the terms of ‘Human’ and ‘Other’. He missed Anathema, he missed the protests and marches, the feeling of belonging to something bigger than himself. He’d been with Aziraphale for a little over a week and he missed everything that would have signified that he was anywhere other than this gloomy Georgian manor house in Walberton. 

These repeat trips to the tip in Westhampnett were the only real time that Newt got to himself, to turn over the thoughts that he dare not think in front of Aziraphale. He hadn’t built up the nerve to tell Aziraphale what he knew, yet. Every evening, Anathema would ask ever so gently and he would have to let her down again. Newt knew why he was there, he knew he was the one who should deliver the information, but every time Aziraphale looked at him with those preternatural eyes and seemed to peer  _ through _ him, Newt lost his nerve.

It was getting dark when Newt got back into the newly-emptied van and turned it towards Walberton once more. They were making good progress on the garden, Aziraphale worked tirelessly under Newt’s direction often refusing rest or food until he’d completed whatever task Newt had set. One morning, Newt had woken to find Aziraphale scrubbing paving stones before the sun had even risen. Curious, Newt had asked why Aziraphale didn’t just miracle the garden back into shape and save them the time and effort. A dark and haunted look had passed across his face, like the shadow of a fast-moving cloud on a summer day.

“Crowley never liked to use miracles in the garden. He used to joke that he wouldn’t even use Miracle-Gro on any plant under his care. I suppose I still think of it as his garden and I want to look after it the way he would. I feel like I let him down enough by allowing it to get like this.” Aziraphale had answered, pausing in his hoeing of the vegetable patch to gesture to the garden.

Newt thought about that exchange a lot, about how Aziraphale spoke about Crowley as if he were dead, a memory to be honoured but out of reach to those left behind. He didn’t know if he had it in him to reopen this wound.

Pulling into the driveway, Newt noted the fresh pile of hedge clippings on the tarpaulin he’d set up. There were no lights on in the house, which probably meant that Aziraphale was still working around back. That said, it wasn’t uncommon for Newt to walk into a darkened room, flip on the light, and find a startled Aziraphale buried in a book. The first time that had happened, there was an even share of shock between them. Newt adapted much more quickly whereas Aziraphale had spent so many years living alone that he was constantly surprised to have another being walk-in. It broke Newt’s heart just a little.

Locking the van, Newt crunched his way across the gravel towards the gate that separated the front-drive from the back garden. It was definitely too dark for him to do anything further today but he should at least tell Aziraphale that he was back before heading inside for a shower. The gate squeaked open, setting Newt’s teeth on edge and doing nothing to prepare him for the scene he faced upon rounding the corner of the house.

Even in the gloom of night, Aziraphale was easy to pick out; a pale and ghost-like figure against the winter blackness, kneeling by a dead flowerbed. Although his feet now crossed soft grass, Newt could still hear the scream of the gate and the squeal of the gravel. Trying to ignore the chill in his spine, he approached Aziraphale until he was close enough to recognise the haunting sounds as the keening cry of a mourning angel.

“Aziraphale?” Newt put out his hand to touch him on the shoulder but stopped short, hovering mere inches away.

Aziraphale turned, his eyes wide and wet. He was filthy, dirt-covered from his fingers to his elbows, muddy handprints all down his front and on his thighs, even his face was splattered with mud except where his tears had run rivers through it. His hands were held out in front of him, something dark and slim rested across his upturned palms.

“Why, Newt?” Aziraphale sobbed. “Why did he leave this?”

Recognition seeped into him like a cold fog. It was a feather. A large, black feather that seemed to be the cleanest thing on Aziraphale. The conversation that they had both been avoiding had just scheduled itself.


	11. Like A Summer Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone! I uploaded chapters out of turn. This was previously uploaded as chapter ten.

The feather lay on the kitchen table like a wound, a black abyss that fell down into nothingness. Every so often, Aziraphale would peel one hand away from the mug he was nursing and reach towards the feather, wanting to check it was really there. Each time, his hand would falter just shy of its goal. The idea of it being a cruel trick was too tempting, if he broke the illusion and lost the only connection he had left to Crowley, it would undo him.

Newt had ushered him inside, made the cocoa, found a soft blanket to wrap around his shoulders, and laid the feather on the table. He sat across the table from Aziraphale, sipping his tea and watching the repeat performance that Aziraphale’s hand insisted on giving.

There were so many questions, Aziraphale felt dizzy with them. The cold had seeped into his bones, hurting him far more than it had any right to. Newt was barely more than a child as far as Aziraphale was concerned, he should pull himself together and put on a brave face rather than burden his guest with this unseemly display of emotion. With considerable effort, Aziraphale pulled out his sunny smile and wore it as best he could.

Dear, sweet Newt just shook his head slowly and reached across the table to pat Aziraphale’s hand.

“It’s OK, Aziraphale. Please don’t put on a front for me. It must be exhausting.”

He felt his face crumple, the kindness of one man was his undoing and a wave of fresh tears began to splash onto the table.

“He left it by the petunias, Newt. Do you know what petunias mean?”

Again, Newt shook his head.

“I read a bit about the language of flowers a few years ago when I was trying to impress some girl, but no, I don’t know petunias.” He admitted.

Aziraphale took a deep breath to steady himself but when he spoke it was as if he was addressing the feather between them.

“Crowley loved the language of flowers. When it was widely known, he used to send arrangements to people with awful meanings or insults worked into them, then he’d make it look like a loved one was responsible. There were so many family rifts caused by his artful bouquets. There’s no way he would pick petunias by accident.”

Newt nodded but didn’t interrupt. Aziraphale barely stopped for breath once he’d started.

“The funny thing about petunias is that they have two very different meanings. They can symbolise one’s desire to spend more time with you because they find your company soothing and peaceful. However, when presented by someone with whom you have recently fallen out, they are meant to represent anger and resentment.” He sniffled loudly, losing control for the briefest moment. “I’m sure that you can discern the intention Crowley must have had.”

Newt opened his mouth to respond, Aziraphale cut him off at the pass.

“But then why leave anything? Why bury his feather under a plant when he would have no reason to believe that I would find it? He could have left a feather anywhere if he’d wanted. I know it’s got to be a message, there has to be a meaning. Does he hate me? What did I do that would make him hate me? If he misses me, then why did he leave? Why won’t he come back?” He was starting to panic, he could hear his own voice pitch upwards and the room was spinning around him.

“Aziraphale, look at me.”

Newt’s hand was back on his, a constant pressure to ground him in the present.

“Aziraphale, I have to tell you something. I shouldn’t have waited this long and I’m sorry for that, but I have something to tell you about Crowley.”

He stumbled over the recounting and took more tangents than a bumblebee with ADHD, but Newt finally laid out the contents of his New Year's conversation with Crowley before Aziraphale.

Aziraphale sat in eerie stillness as Newt meandered towards his meaning, absorbing far less than he wanted. He realised that Newt was looking at him expectantly, searching his face for a reaction to the news he’d delivered. Aziraphale didn’t know what he was supposed to think. Newt was offering something so tantalisingly close to an answer, closure, the truth, but there were still so many missing pieces that Aziraphale was left with more questions than ever.

“Thank you, Newt.” He smiled as warmly as he was able to. “I know this must have been difficult for you, feeling stuck between Crowley and me.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to reach across the table and offer reassurance through the gentle squeeze of a hand. He still felt hollow inside, like the faintest tap might crumble his delicate shell into dust, but he had somewhere to start now. Opposite him, Newt shifted uncomfortably.

“Look, I just think you should know the truth, yeah? What you want to do with it is up to you. It’s, uh, it’s just that Adam and Anathema have been trying to work out what caused this rift for the past few months. If I was the subject of someone’s mystery-solving club, I’d want to know about it.” Newt stared at his hands, looking more guilty than seemed appropriate.

After a few moments, Aziraphale realised that any scheme involving Anathema would inevitably involve Newt’s full cooperation; Newt was dropping himself into the firing line just as much as his co-conspirators.

“Oh Newt, dear boy. Please do relax, I’m not upset about that. I can’t exactly ask you all to ignore what happened.”

That did the trick, the tension visibly left Newt’s shoulders and he even managed a small smile in response.

“It’s getting late now, you must be hungry. I’ll sort you out some dinner in a few minutes.” Aziraphale picked up the black feather by the shaft, bringing it closer to his face and turning it in the light to admire the rainbow iridescence. “I wonder if I might ask a small favour of you beforehand?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. What is it?” Newt looked startled by the question, but perhaps not any more startled than he usually did upon realising that someone had addressed him.

“Right before Crowley left, I gave him a feather of mine to keep nearby as a reminder of our love. I tucked it into his wing for him, although I imagine he’s thrown it out by now.” Aziraphale paused and looked at Newt hopefully as if Newt regularly saw Crowley’s wings and would be able to set his worries to rest. Of course, Newt had nothing to say; Crowley rarely had his wings out as it was and never around humans. “If I were to bring my wings out here, would you be willing to assist me in securing this feather between my own?”

“I mean, I can try?” Newt clearly doubted his ability to do much correctly, let alone anything to do with literal angel wings.

“There’s a chap,” Aziraphale said, encouragingly.

He laid the black feather onto Newt’s outstretched palm and turned his back, concentrating on bringing his wings into the physical plane. Remembering all too well how Crowley’s wings had filled the kitchen, Aziraphale kept his left wing tucked against his body and stretched the right wing out to the side.

“Oh wow, yeah, those really are wings, aren’t they?” Newt asked, stupidly.

It was possibly the most intelligent thing that a human had ever said when faced with Aziraphale’s wings. Most humans just sobbed, screamed, or incoherently begged for mercy so awed pointless observations were far preferred.

“Just pick a likely spot, probably quite a bit nearer to my back than the tips, and slide it in amongst the others.” Aziraphale directed.

About thirty seconds of rustling and a feeling not unlike having one’s hair brushed the wrong way was followed by Newt stepping back to assess his work.

“How does that feel? Secure enough? Not poking you, is it?”

Aziraphale flexed the wing carefully, avoiding the cabinets and the light fittings.

“Marvellous, that’s exactly what I needed. Thank you ever so much for the assistance, Newt.”

A muffled pop signalled the disappearance of the bright, white wings as air rushed to fill the void that had been created by their sudden absence.

Inspired by one of his literary heroes, Aziraphale decided to follow in the footsteps of one Scarlett O’Hara and think about his problems tomorrow because, after all, tomorrow is another day. In the meantime, he determined to be the sort of host that Newt actually deserved, rather than the miserable and awkward presence he had been, making his own home uncomfortable. He shooed Newt off towards a hot shower and clean change of clothes while busying himself with the familiar task of preparing food. For the first time in a while, Aziraphale found himself excited by the prospect of a good meal rather than just eating to fill a gnawing hollow deep inside himself. The flicker of hope, of understanding, of peace, it was starting to bring him back to himself.

If nothing else, Aziraphale knew that Crowley loved him still, that he grieved over their separation, and that whatever had driven Crowley to leave had come as a message from Heaven. The feeling was so different from his melancholy of the past year and a half than Aziraphale was almost giddy with it.

Some hours later, once Newt had gone up to bed after repeatedly checking that Aziraphale was OK and didn’t harbour any anger about what Anathema and Adam had been up to, Aziraphale sat in his comfortable armchair in front of the fireplace in the library. The fire had burned down to glowing embers that cast a warm light across the floor. The clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight with a brief melody and some petulant part of Aziraphale’s brain informed him that it was no longer the same day that he had found the feather; he had enjoyed his evening, had his allocated respite from grief, and now it was time to confront what had occurred.

On the ethereal plane, Aziraphale flexed his right wing to feel that slight sensation of displaced feathers. It was as if he was reassuring himself that the discovery in the garden had actually occurred because if that was real, then what Newt had told him was real. It was one thing to know that Crowley had left to protect Aziraphale but, without knowing what he was apparently being protected from, Aziraphale couldn’t let the topic rest.

Heaven and Hell had already thrown their best shots at them and failed, at the time both Crowley and Aziraphale had known that they had only bought more time and not a complete reversal of their sentences. Pretending otherwise would have been foolish after making enemies of perhaps every supernatural force in the universe. Crowley had wanted them to be prepared for a whole wealth of eventualities, Aziraphale remembered. The idea of Crowley deliberately seeking out an angel or contact with Heaven was so ridiculous as to be laughable. Crowley contacting Heaven without even talking to Aziraphale about it was just not a possibility that Aziraphale would entertain. Which left the uncomfortable reality that Heaven or a representative thereof had sought Crowley out and given him reason to leave Aziraphale. He was sure that they had been happy, that Crowley had loved him as deeply as Aziraphale had loved in return. Whatever Crowley had been told to make him leave would have to have been truly awful.

With a sickening realisation, Aziraphale had the answer: Heaven would never officially reach out to Crowley. Even before they played their part in averting Armageddon, Heaven did not consort with any being of Hell in an official capacity. It was the whole reason for the secrecy they had kept around their relationship for millennia, the cause for their clandestine meetings and frequent disagreements. If they had been caught fraternising with each other at any other point in history, the consequences would have been dire. As it was, the fraternising had been the least of their crimes in the face of disrupting a 6000-year-old plan. An angel with any business that required meeting with Crowley would have to do so secretly, just as Aziraphale had for so many years. 

There was no denying that Aziraphale had re-lived every second of their last few days together multiple times; the memories were as fresh as if he were still trapped in them, watching his world break apart from an outside perspective, wanted to scream and stop everything so that he could make the outcome change just once. Once he had actually considered it, there was one obvious answer. The sale of the flat had been an unusual arrangement, the new owner insisting upon meeting Crowley for the exchange. That was how they had got him, that was how they had got Crowley away from Aziraphale and dripped whatever poison they had into his ear.

Several things occurred to Aziraphale at once. Firstly, he was struck by just how well-timed the intercept had been, Heaven, and perhaps Hell too, were keeping closer tabs on them than he’d expected. Especially if this had been the illicit meeting that he suspected, he couldn’t imagine an archangel would bother getting involved to warn them of potential troubles ahead. 

Secondly, that last day that they had together was not the cruel trick that he had imagined but Crowley’s last chance to feel loved before he broke them apart. Aziraphale felt so deeply guilty about his misgivings against Crowley, he had only wanted to experience one last day of the peace they had found with each other. Thirdly, there was really only one thing that Heaven could tell Crowley to make him leave without even discussing it with him: they had threatened to make Aziraphale Fall.

Doubling over in his chair, as if he’d been hit in the gut, Aziraphale lurched forward and fell to his knees. Silent tears wet his cheeks, as knowledge of the full weight of Crowley’s suffering settled in his brain. 

Crowley never spoke about his Fall, not in real terms. He alluded to it, made off-the-cuff jokes about it, and more than anything he deflected any conversation about it. It had always seemed impolite to ask about it and Aziraphale never wanted to be impolite. As such, he knew very little about the practicalities of Crowley’s experience. The emotional toll, though, that was a very different story. 

The pain that Crowley had experienced was written as clear as day in his every decision, his manner, his neuroses. Aziraphale remembered those poor, terrified houseplants that he had met that first night they had spent at Crowley’s flat. Since then, he had witnessed the way that Crowley spoke to them, the impossible standards he set for them, the fear he instilled in them at the prospect of failing him. Crowley used the plants as an emotional outlet for his issues with both Heaven and Hell, casting himself as judge, jury, and executioner for a populace that had little hope of being anything but a disappointment. Through them, he tried to make sense of his rejection, his place in the world, the wounds he’d suffered for crimes he didn’t understand. Aziraphale had known all of this, and yet he had never really considered it.

Every fear that Crowley had, every raw nerve Aziraphale had ever accidentally aggravated, it was all tied to his trauma from being cast out of Heaven. More than anything, Crowley feared being rejected, found unworthy, judged against a standard he didn’t have sight of and found to be wanting. He had spent so long trying to protect Aziraphale from suffering the same fate, watching his back and keeping him from straying too far from goodness whenever he could, of course, Crowley would have left to keep Aziraphale from Falling.

Aziraphale was suffocating, his throat constricted by his bow-tie, his chest seizing against his attempts to draw breath. The edges of his vision fuzzed as he forgot all about operating a body that was used to things like oxygen. On his hands and knees, his fingers clawing at the rug that Crowley had picked out, Aziraphale sobbed.

It didn’t matter how much Crowley loved him, it wouldn’t matter how miserable they each became; Crowley would never allow Aziraphale to Fall on his behalf. He would never forgive Aziraphale for choosing to Fall. He would never allow his presence to be a risk to Aziraphale’s well-being. They had been on their own side for so long that they had become two sides of the same coin in a way that Heaven and Hell could never be. If Aziraphale Fell, the trauma would consume Crowley as he struggled to make sense of it.

It all fit together so well that Aziraphale scolded himself for not having seen it sooner, he had continued to trust that Heaven, at least, would be as good as their word. He had hoped for so many more years with Crowley, making a life together until it was easy to see Crowley smiling in the garden with soil on his face and not fear everything falling apart. 

They hadn’t even got into enough of a pattern to squabble over petty domestic nuisances, Aziraphale desperately wanted to know if Crowley always put the teaspoons away in the wrong place, or if he always wanted the heating too high in the winter. 

Everything had been too fraught, too uncomfortably polite, too nerve-wracking in those first early months of living together that Aziraphale had barely noticed much more than Crowley’s physical location and his mood. He’d been deeply concerned about how Crowley was coping with the aftermath of the aborted Apocalypse, it had clearly dredged up some of Crowley’s deeper psychological wounds and there were times when he had felt so far away from Aziraphale that it was a wonder that he had heard Aziraphale say “I love you” the first time.

Crowley, his poor, wounded, hurting, brave serpent, deserved all the patience that Aziraphale possessed. Aziraphale had never begrudged Crowley a second of it. He gladly gave what little he had to offer in the way of knowledge, empathy, and understanding. Crowley’s wounds were so very deep and old, Aziraphale had always known that he was effectively trying to bail out the Titanic with a teacup.

So, of course, Aziraphale couldn’t blame Crowley for doing what he did. No matter how he might feel and what he might prefer, Crowley’s long term mental health had to take priority. Desperately missing the only other being in the universe who understood him was nothing compared to another 6000 years of trauma and self-destructive coping mechanisms. He had to accept that, he did accept that. He wouldn’t and couldn’t hate Crowley for trying to save them both.


	12. Bring It Back, Bring It Back Home To Me

In an early morning video call with Anathema, Newt caught her up on the events of the day. She was uncharacteristically colourful in her language about Crowley’s parting gift and the obvious toll it had taken on “poor Aziraphale, the dear sweetheart”. It made Newt miss her all the more. 

Thinking that the worst part was over, Newt showered and dressed with a much lighter heart than he’d experienced so far this trip, it was just going to be a day of back-breaking garden labour without the emotional turmoil of trying to work out the best way to tell Aziraphale what he knew. That optimism had dried up into nothingness the very second that Newt saw the huddled mass of heartbroken angel on the library floor.

The fire had burned out some time ago but the central heating had come on before Newt had woken. There was no reason for the room to be as cold as it was. Newt shivered and hugged himself against the chill in the air.

“Aziraphale?” He called out, rather more quiet than he’d intended.

The sad ball on the floor didn’t respond but he did roll over and start to stand up, much to Newt’s relief. He didn’t like to think about what he’d have to do with a sick, dying, or dead celestial being. Newt stepped aside to let Aziraphale shuffle out of the room, his face downcast and grey. The temperature immediately surrounding Aziraphale was considerably lower than that in the rest of the house. Briefly, Newt considered fetching his gloves and scarf from the stand by the front door. His mum would probably have told him off for being rude though.

He followed Aziraphale into the kitchen, making faces and sounds as if he wanted to speak but lacked the ability. An impression which wasn’t all that far from the truth, to be fair. Aziraphale filled the kettle and set it to boil, going through all the motions of making two mugs of tea. At a loss, Newt sat at the table in his customary seat and watched Aziraphale fuss about with milk and tea bags. By the time that Aziraphale brought the mugs over and set one in front of him, he had found his tongue enough to mutter his thanks. Aziraphale nodded without looking at him and slumped in the opposite chair, staring into the middle distance.

Newt sipped his tea and nearly spat it straight back out again; there was so much sugar in it that it would probably be considered a tea flavoured syrup. 

As an Englishman, Newt made sure to know the tea preferences of all his friends. He knew that Aziraphale liked no milk and a dash of honey in his morning tea and a slice of lemon in an afternoon Earl Grey. He knew that Shadwell drank an ungodly abomination of tea with condensed milk and nine sugars that Newt had tried out of curiosity once and immediately vomited. Madame Tracy liked a strong cup of tea with exactly three-quarters of a teaspoon of sugar and she always claimed to be able to tell if you had stirred the tea clockwise or widdershins. American Anathema only drank loose leaf tea steeped in a proper teapot and served in a proper teacup, which Newt found entirely too adorable for words, and she liked to read the leaves afterwards. 

Newt made a point of knowing these things so that he could be a good host or, at least, a not useless guest. This is why that as soon as he tasted the tea, he knew exactly what had happened. Crowley liked a standard black tea with a splash of milk and as much sugar as he could convince to dissolve in the mug. Aziraphale had made tea for Crowley, not Newt’s usual “Julie Andrews” order (a white  nun, or white none, milk and no sugar). Just the thought of drinking it made Newt’s blood sugar spike dangerously, but telling Aziraphale what he’d done seemed risky given his obviously delicate mental state. Awkwardly, Newt tried to nurse the mug and hide it from Aziraphale.

“They told him I was going to Fall.” Aziraphale said out of nowhere.

Newt could hear the capital F and thought he grasped the concept. Crowley had Fallen and was a demon, Aziraphale hadn’t and was an angel. Simple, really. You know, once you got over the sheer terror of accepting that Heaven, Hell, God, Satan, and all the rest were actually very real. Compared to actually seeing Satan claw his way out of the earth to yell at a pre-teen boy, Aziraphale and Crowley were far easier to deal with.

“Wouldn’t he have spoken to you about that?” Newt asked, curling his hands around the mug of tea and absorbing the warmth.

“I don’t think so, no. Not if he believed that leaving was the only way to prevent it. He wouldn’t have wanted to risk me changing his mind.” Aziraphale looked small and broken.

“Is it really that bad? I mean, Crowley Fell and he seems pretty together about it. What more could they do to you after that?” Newt nodded upwards to furnish meaning into his question.

Aziraphale laughed; a bitter, sudden noise devoid of mirth.

“You think Crowley has himself together? Oh, my dear boy, you really don’t know him as well as you think you do.” Aziraphale looked at Newt for the first time that morning. “Crowley has been suffering for a sin that he doesn’t fully understand since before this planet was a twinkle in Her eye. Everything he does, everything he ever has done in the realm, it’s all because he is hurting and trying to make sense of why. Even if I Fell and came out the other side none the worse for it, Crowley would relive all of that trauma and would be excruciating for him if not fatal for his grip on sanity.”

Newt gulped. He had been too cavalier and complacent about Crowley, taking him at face value and assuming that things like emotional trauma and insecurity were simply too human to affect him. Lost in thought, Newt took a sip of his tea and grimaced.

“What’s wrong with- Oh no, it’s full of sugar, isn’t it? Oh, I  _ am _ sorry, Newt. Here, I’ll make you a fresh one.” Aziraphale took the mug away and dumped the tea into the sink. “You know, when he first left I would keep doing things like that. I’d make his tea in the morning, or set two places at the table for dinner, or leave out articles I thought he’d like. For a while, I felt like I’d never break the habit.”

“I think that’s pretty normal. When my dad died, my mum served out his dinner most nights for six months. I think she still gets the urge to iron his shirts every Sunday night.” Newt had very little idea of how to relate or help but he felt compelled to try.

“Really? That is comforting. It’s silly now, though. He’s been gone for longer than he lived here, I should be more used to being here alone than I was to having him with me. Does that make sense?”

Many people, upon meeting Newton Pulsifer, had assumed that he was the type of person who had all of his knowledge from reading and very little in the way of emotional intelligence. These people were wrong. What was often mistaken for a lack of compassion was actually just a mouth that worked faster than his brain, something that Newt was desperately aware of and actively working on. With his improved self-control, Newt bit his bottom lip and thought for a moment before allowing himself to speak.

“I can see why you think that it should be easier, but you are ignoring all of your history from before moving in together. You don’t just miss making him his, frankly, awful tea. He was your best friend and the only constant you had for 6000 years. You went through everything together. There’s no timeline for getting over that.”

The kettle began to boil and turned itself off, giving Aziraphale a distraction and a chance to turn his face away from Newt. The last thing that either of them needed was another awkward crying session from Aziraphale. While the fresh mug of tea was brewing, Newt texted Anathema with his latest update. Things were moving so much faster than he had expected, he almost thought that enlisting Aziraphale into the mystery-solving gang might be a good idea. Fortunately, he recognised that Aziraphale considered the mystery completely solved and would not cooperate with any scheme to bring Crowley back.

Anathema was still awake on the California coast and responded almost immediately with a string of nonsense gibberish that Newt recognised as her flustered attempt to form words. It made him smile just to think of her frantically tapping at her phone and squealing with excitement.

“And how is Anathema today?” Aziraphale asked as he sat the mug in front of Newt.

“Huh? How did you-?” Newt hadn’t mentioned her but Aziraphale’s question sounded like part of a larger conversation he had missed.

“You’re communicating with her, on your mobile telephone, correct? It’s all over your face, my dear fellow. You have an Anathema smile.”

Warmth flooded Newt’s cheeks in what he hoped was a masculine blush.

“Well, you know,” He shrugged helplessly. “She’s great. I miss her and stuff.”

“My goodness, Newt. I’ve been being so selfish. You don’t want to be here with a miserable, stuffy angel, I must insist that you return to Anathema at once!”

Newt reached across the table and patted Aziraphale’s forearm.

“Not until we’ve finished getting the garden ready. We’re so close now, I’m not leaving you with a job half done.”

Aziraphale’s burst of gratitude was so intense that Newt felt somewhat intoxicated until well into the afternoon.

**Anathema:**

OK gang, big news. Newt finally spoke to Aziraphale!

**Brian:**

No way! He did it!

**Pepper:**

AT LAST

**Newt:**

I  _ am _ in here too, you know

**Adam:**

What did he say?

**Newt:**

Anathema, I see you typing. Do you just want to tell it?

**Anathema:**

Aziraphale dug up an old feather of Crowley’s from the garden, I guess C buried it there before he left? Anyway, A found it and had a full-on breakdown about it because of the plant it was under. He starts saying that C was trying to send a message but can’t tell if it’s a good one or not. So Newt finally tells him about what C said on NYE. He seemed to take it well enough but the next morning A is like a zombie. He says he’s worked out that upstairs must have told C that A was at risk of falling. Like, FALLING, you know? That’s the only thing that would have made C just leave without talking to him about it.

**Anathema:**

Sorry, Newt. I got carried away.

**Brian:**

Shit

**Pepper:**

Well, that’s solved then

**Wensleydale:**

Good work, pack up and go home.

**Adam:**

Yeah, not quite. Something isn’t right

For the first time in over three years, Aziraphale had cancelled his monthly visit to Tadfield. Adam would have been more concerned about it if it weren’t for the fact that Newt was still staying with Aziraphale and keeping an eye on him. Ever since the text exchange the day before, Adam had been worrying something over in his head. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong or even describe the general shape of the problem. Any time he started to feel like he had caught a thread of it and began teasing the thought closer, it dissolved into nothingness. If nothing else, it was deeply frustrating.

Wrapped up in more layers than an onion, Adam took Dog for a walk through the village. Dog trotted along smartly, apparently pleased with the little coat that Aziraphale had given him for Christmas. Pepper was visiting her grandmother this weekend, Brian was doing a litter-pick with the local Scout troop, and Wensleydale was helping his mother at the food bank in town. This all meant that Adam was alone with his thoughts and a dog who had developed a taste for tartan. 

It was cold enough to have kept even the most dedicated of neighbourhood snoops indoors and there was fresh snow on the ground. At the grand old age of 14, Adam often considered himself too grown-up for childish games but a good snowfall was a shame to waste at any age. Stooping to gather up a snowball, Adam whistled to Dog who immediately recognised the game and bounded away a few metres. No matter how often they did this, Dog was always up for trying to catch snowballs until his teeth were numb. The pair of them ran around the churchyard, laughing and barking in equal measure until they had completely forgotten about the cold creeping into their bones.

When Adam slumped behind a tombstone, hiding from Dog and trying to catch his breath, the sight of Crowley leaning against the wall took him completely by surprise.

“What are you doing here?” Adam asked on reflex.

“Auditioning for the lead in Pygmalion, what does it look like? I’m watching two idiots give themselves hypothermia.”

Adam bristled in the manner unique to teenagers who have been caught openly enjoying themselves, slouching into himself and huffing. Crowley laughed and threw a snowball that caught Adam in the side of the head.

“That went in my ear, Crowley!” Adam laughed despite himself.

War had been declared and both sides took it very seriously, pelting each other with snowballs across the old flint wall. Crowley’s sunglasses cracked and Adam’s boots filled with meltwater that froze his toes so they negotiated a truce and sat together on a bench beside a giant yew, catching their breaths.

“Hold still,” Crowley instructed and snapped his fingers, drying Adam’s socks and boots in an instant.

“Sorry about your glasses. I, uh, I don-” Adam started to apologise as Crowley threw the broken pair into a nearby bin.

“Don’t worry about it, this happens all the time. Well, not this precise scenario. It’s actually pretty rare for me to have my glasses broken by a snowball thrown by the AntiChrist.”

“Ex-AntiChrist,” Adam interjected.

“Oh, yes. Of course, my apologies. Anyway, I go through glasses fairly regularly. I’ve got a spare pair in the car.” Crowley nodded towards where the Bentley was parked.

“Why don’t you just, you know,” Adam mimed snapping his fingers to illustrate his point.

Crowley shrugged.

“Dunno. I just prefer it this way, I guess.”

A minute of quiet thought passed between them. Adam was being bothered by the feeling of wrongness again like something was wriggling in his brain and demanding attention. He looked at Crowley and saw the unhappiness that was storming below the surface of well-rehearsed cool and indifference. It was time to be brave, Adam decided.

“Did you leave Aziraphale because Heaven told you that you were making him Fall?” Adam screwed his eyes up and winced, waiting for Crowley’s outburst.

Nothing came, no angry rant, no tearful confession. All that Adam could hear was the sound of Dog’s coat rattling as he scratched behind one ear. Slowly, Adam opened his eyes and found Crowley staring at him, his mouth hanging open.

“What did you say?” Crowley seemed to finally find his tongue.

“I’m sorry, Crowley. I just put the pieces together and wanted to know. Am I right, though? Is that what happened?”

Crowley swallowed and narrowed his eyes.

“I don’t really think that’s any of your business.” Crowley spat out in a tone colder than the frigid winter air.

He stood and stomped over to his car, driving off without giving Adam another look.

“Well, Dog. I definitely made a mess of that.”


	13. A Blue Sky's On The Way

First, Crowley was going to murder Newt, then he was going to bring him back to life and murder him a second time for good measure. The Bentley skidded around a sharp bend, its wheels spinning in slush and fighting to find traction. Crowley swore under his breath and slowed down; he was too distracted to drive in his usual manner, especially with the roads in this state.

“Call Anathema,” he instructed his phone, it complied.

After a number of rings, the call connected.

“Crowley, it’s 4 am. What’s wrong?” She sounded concerned and sleep-drunk.

“Where’s Newt, Anathema?” Crowley barked.

“Why? Why didn’t you call him?”

“Because,” Crowley hissed, “I don’t want him to know I’m coming.”

That was the wrong thing to say, he realised too late. Anathema was too smart to be intimidated by his nasty demon act no matter how angry he was or asleep she happened to be.

“Crowley, whatever has crawled up your ass and died is your own problem. If you’re not prepared to talk to me like a rational being then I’m going to hang up.”

He considered the options for a moment, too emotional to completely switch tracks, Crowley decided to change his target.

“Who has Newt spoken to? Your lump of idiot is the only person that I breathed a word of this to, the truth of what happened. Now, less than a month later, the precocious Prince of the Bottomless Pit is asking me a very pointed question about what threat Heaven used on me? It doesn’t take a genius to work out how he’s come to these conclusions.”

The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening. He had her on the ropes, Crowley thought as he swerved around a pothole; he could almost hear her panicking.

“Newt’s staying with Aziraphale. Go there if you want to take it up with him.” Anathema sounded decidedly unrattled.

“You think you’re such a smart witch, don’t you? I’m going to murder him and then I’ll come for you.”

Crowley heard her sigh and knew in his bones that she was pinching the bridge of her nose. This kind of sigh was reserved for the most stupid and stubborn obstacles that Anathema had the displeasure of encountering. Being lumped into this category was deeply insulting.

“Crowley, I get that you’re hurting and lashing out. I’m not upset, but you have to realise that there are people who care about you and want you to be happy-”

“Happy?!” Crowley spat down the line, “That’s not an option for me, Anathema. This isn’t something that can just be fixed with positive thinking and some carefully placed crystals. I’m not going to be responsible for Aziraphale Falling, I couldn’t do that to him, I couldn’t go through it again.” He broke off, gasping for breath.

When Anathema spoke again, her voice was so soft that it hurt him to hear, to have it directed at him when he was so unworthy of it.

“Please listen to me, no one is going to Fall. Come meet me in California and we’ll talk about it properly, OK?”

“Can I kill Newt first?”

“Absolutely not.”

Crowley considered his options.

“Fine. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“Not until lunchtime, please. I need sleep.”

Crowley pulled over and parked the Bentley in the first lay-by that he saw after the call had ended. He gripped the top of the steering wheel and pressed his forehead into the backs of his hands with his eyes closed. He wanted a drink, something strong like a pint of methylated spirits. He wanted to embrace oblivion for a few decades rather than face whatever reasonable conversation Anathema intended to have with him. He  _ really  _ wanted to kill Newt, at least for a little while, in revenge for the agony that tore at Crowley’s insides. 

At the side of the road, his face wet with tears, Crowley waited for the pain to subside into something manageable. When that didn’t happen, he pulled back out onto the road and trusted the car to get him where he needed to be; the garage where he stored his beloved Bentley while Crowley was out of the country. Once it was securely locked up, Crowley crossed seven time zones and took a seat at a table outside one of the few Malibu restaurants that he considered to be tolerable. 

Ordering a bloody mary from a waiter who could’ve sworn that his shift didn’t start for another hour, Crowley fired off a text to Anathema telling her where he’d be waiting when she decided that she was ready to leave the house.

Two hours later, when Anathema finally arrived, Crowley had already downed several drinks and was just the right side of sloshed for the conversation they needed to have. She looked overly severe as she approached his table, her jaw set and her mouth a grim line. Crowley looked over the top of his sunglasses at her, unimpressed with her attempt at intimidation. If that was the game she wanted to play, then Crowley was all set. Anathema might be immune to his less savoury charms over the phone, but surely it was worth a shot to get what he wanted the demonic way.

“One good reason why I shouldn’t kill Newt. Make it convincing.”

Anathema took a seat, picked up the menu and looked it over, ignoring Crowley in exactly the way that got under his skin. It had been a mistake to ever spend time with these humans, to allow them into his life. As soon as one of them had even the slightest bit of information on him, they went running to Aziraphale to tattle on him. It was pathetic.

The waiter returned, earning a smile from Anathema as she placed a lunch order. Crowley glowered at her, decided it was time to move on to afternoon drinks, and ordered a bottle of wine. He wasn’t feeling his most mature, but Anathema appeared to be invested in this silent treatment and he wasn’t going to stand for it. He leaned back in his chair, looking up to the sky as he waited for Anathema to acknowledge him. The drink orders were served, Anathema took a sip of her juice and finally looked at Crowley.

“Have you calmed down enough to talk about this sensibly?”

“Do I  _ look _ calm?” Crowley hissed.

“You look constipated, if I’m honest.” Anathema shrugged.

Crowley bristled and pulled off his sunglasses. Irritatingly, Anathema didn’t even flinch away from his gaze. He’d been too soft with these humans.

“You forget what I am, girl.”

She had the audacity to scoff at him.

“I know what you are, you wear it on your sleeve every single day. It’s a millstone around your neck. The rod with which you beat your own back.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors,” Crowley snapped, weakly.

Anathema pinched the bridge of her nose and screwed her eyes shut for a moment. She took a deep breath and gave him a look so withering that even a cactus might have trembled before it. Crowley understood that she was letting him know that she saw right through his attitude and wasn’t about to relinquish any advantage she might have.

“Crowley, look. I know you’ve got a lot invested in this ‘unlovable, unforgivable, nasty demon’ shtick, but have you actually stopped and taken stock of what you have?” She gestured with open palms as if offering him something intangible. “There are people who love you, who have forgiven you for everything you’ve thrown at them so far, who  _ know _ you and still want to help you. Can you see that?”

Crowley wanted to walk away then, to just get up and leave this conversation, this truth, this entire life all behind. He sneered at her, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“How does this explain the situation I have found myself in?” His voice was tight, barely controlled.

“Don’t you want to go home, Crowley? What’s the harm in letting us try and make this right with you?”

Crowley was both too drunk and not drunk enough to deal with the ramifications of this conversation. He scrubbed his hands over his face in exasperation. Anathema was really trying his patience with this stuff.

“I don’t have a home. I won’t be responsible for Aziraphale Falling just because I was too selfish to stay away.”

Anathema reached for his hands, pulling them away from his face and holding them gently.

“Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened?”

Reluctantly, Crowley did.

February in Tadfield was crisp with chill but never biting. Only January was ever allowed to get properly cold, the kind of cold that Aziraphale could feel in his bones no matter how many layers he wore. February was allowed to mellow into the early promises of spring with snowdrops and optimistic daffodils colouring the village green. It was rather pleasant, as long as they kept moving. Aziraphale stuffed his hands in the pockets of his coat and hunched his shoulders against the breeze. Ahead, Dog was sniffing a promising clump of grass and deciding whether it needed his scent on it again.

“I wonder what the life expectancy is for a hellhound,” said Adam apropos of nothing.

“Hmm? Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that. Dog’s not going anywhere for a long time.” Aziraphale tried to sound reassuring.

“I know  _ that _ , Aziraphale. I was just wondering. Like, what if he lives longer than me? He’s not going to go back to Hell,” Adam said, firmly.

This raised several issues that Aziraphale had only considered in the privacy of his own thoughts, namely the mortality of an ex-Antichrist and the destination of any soul such a person might possess.

“Of course not. We wouldn’t let that happen to him. Perhaps you could ask Crowley about this? He probably knows more than I do.” Aziraphale felt like a coward, dodging the question like this.

Adam stopped in his tracks and looked sullen.

“I don’t think Crowley’s talking to me right now.” He kicked at a loose stone on the pavement.

“Whyever not? He’s not disappeared off on you again, has he?” Aziraphale was immediately indignant.

Crowley had only been back in Adam’s life for a few months and now it seemed that he’d buggered off again. This wasn’t the kind of behaviour that Aziraphale expected from him at all; he’d always been more loyal to his friends than was wise. To abandon Adam twice in such quick succession was too cruel.

“I think I upset him last month.”

Aziraphale waited for Adam to provide more information but none was forthcoming. He searched for something to say to reassure Adam that things weren’t so bleak, but what could he say? That Crowley wasn’t the type to hold a grudge? There are at least three fallen empires that disprove that theory. He reached out and patted Adam on the shoulder.

“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you’re imagining.”

Adam looked at him, something ineffable written across his features as he puzzled out something in his thoughts.

“He was mad enough about it to say he was going to murder Newt. Anathema told me.”

Aziraphale was getting thoroughly annoyed with feeling out of the loop when it came to these three. He was too old and too tired to be outfoxed by two humans and a teenage ex-Antichrist. Gesturing to a bench, Aziraphale got Adam to sit. He took a deep, steadying breath before laying out his tangled thoughts.

“Adam, I understand that you, Anathema, and Newt have been trying to investigate the cause of Crowley’s departure. I’m not going to ask you to stop, but please, Adam, do think about what this feels like for me. This is my  _ life _ and I’m just trying to get on with it as best I can. I don’t want to be dragged into every new episode of Crowley drama.” Aziraphale searched Adam’s eyes for any indication that he understood.

“So, does that mean that you don’t want to know exactly what made Crowley leave?” Adam asked in a fair imitation of innocence, betrayed only by the creases of a smile around his eyes.

That was a better question than Adam could have realised; one that Aziraphale didn’t know how to answer honestly. His hands came together in his lap to worry at each other as he considered the options. Fixing Adam with a firm look, Aziraphale gave the only answer he cared about.

“Only if you’re sure that my knowing will be useful to Crowley.”

Adam’s face did something complicated as he tried to work out how to answer that.

“I’m sure enough,” he said finally. “I hope I’m right.” And he began to tell all that he had learnt from Anathema.

Adam confirmed Aziraphale’s theory that the threat from Heaven had been regarding his continued status as an angel and that Crowley had struggled deeply with deciding how to handle it. Aziraphale found more comfort in that knowledge than he had expected; knowing that Crowley hadn’t immediately decided how to proceed meant that he had weighed the impacts on both of them. When Adam explained how the angel, Claitiel, had demonstrated the evidence of Aziraphale’s impending fall, Aziraphale had to choke back a rebuttal.

“I know Claitiel, always seemed a decent sort,” Aziraphale managed to limit his response, gesturing for Adam to continue and saved the rest of his input for the end of the tale.

Aziraphale’s heart shattered all over again when Adam faltered over telling him about Crowley’s last night at their home, how he felt guilty over taking those last few happy hours for his memory whilst Aziraphale hadn’t known that the end was coming.

“Are you too old for hugs now?” Aziraphale asked when Adam had finished.

He shrugged and looked at his feet, mumbling something that was largely open for interpretation. Aziraphale wrapped one arm around Adam’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze.

“That was the right decision. Thank you.”

Dog had grown bored of running around the village green during the conversation and was under the bench, chewing on a stick; for a minute that was the only sound.

“I have some questions but they need privacy,” Aziraphale continued, at last, looking around for somewhere that would serve his purpose. “Ah! The church.”

“I think it’s locked,” said Adam, hesitantly.

He got up and followed Aziraphale anyway, calling Dog to heel as they cross the green.

The church door opens easily when Aziraphale tries the handle, he holds it open for Adam and Dog who don’t so much as flinch when they cross the threshold. Briefly, he wondered about whether there was any meaning in that before getting back to the matter at hand.

“Stand back a bit, there’s a good lad.” Aziraphale put some space between Adam and himself.

There was a muted pop and a familiar weight settled on Aziraphale’s back as his wings stretched out on the physical plane.

“Oh cool,” Adam sounded impressed. “I didn’t know you could do that here, like, just whenever.”

Aziraphale grinned like he’d just pulled off an impressive magic trick but held back from giving a bow. He brought his wings to his sides to he could see them.

“You said that Crowley described my feather as being silvery, correct?” Aziraphale asked, running his fingers through the plumage of one wing.

“Yeah, silvery with dark speckles on the shaft.”

Dog bounced in a circle, unsure of what was happening but certain that it would be a very fun game as soon as he understood. Adam’s hands stopped short of actually touching Aziraphale’s wing, but he inspected as closely as he could.

“Oh, without something truly white to compare them to, I’m not sure we’re going to see the difference. They all look very white to me, still,” Aziraphale fretted and turned around to look for something white.

He lifted his wings over the pews as he turned, flexing the tips upward.

“What’s that?” Adam asked from behind. “There’s a dark one right there.”

“Oh, that’s Crowley’s. He left it in the garden between coming back from London and leaving me the next day. I found it with Newt.”

Adam made a noise that Aziraphale couldn’t interpret.

“Crowley’s feathers are black, though. That’s something else.”

Aziraphale brought his wing around so sharply that one of the Mothers’ Union banners fell off the wall. Gently, he pulled the dark feather free and held it up to the light.

“I- I don’t understand,” said Aziraphale.

The feather that had so recently been so dark that it resembled a hole cut through the fabric of the universe was now a mottled grey with a completely white shaft. Aziraphale span it between his fingers as if a different angle might provide the answers he sought.

“What is it?” Adam asked.

“I don’t know. It’s still Crowley’s feather, but it’s changed. It was in the ground for over a year without being affected but a few weeks in my wing and it’s practically unrecognisable. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Adam held out his hand, silently asking to see it himself. Aziraphale placed the feather across his palm and went back to inspecting his own plumage.

“There aren’t any speckles on my feathers,” he summoned a pristine handful of snow to hold against his wing. “White as ever, I’m sure.”

Aziraphale dismissed the snow and summoned a sheet of paper, then a disoriented dove, a bunch of lilies, a string of pearls, a mound of whipped cream, and, finally, a representation of the whitest star in the universe. He sighed and muttered to himself as he cycled through his bizarre assortment of ideas.

“My feathers are white. Not a spec of grey on them.”

Adam cleared his throat, reminding Aziraphale of his presence.

“I’m sorry, Adam. I don’t have an answer for this,” Aziraphale sounded as defeated as he felt.

“I don’t think  _ why _ is the important aspect of this. Do you think that this-” Adam shook Crowley’s faded feather for emphasis, “means that Crowley is about to become an angel?”

Aziraphale scoffed at that, the very thought of Crowley being welcomed into Heaven as one of the host was laughable. But the boy had a point; it  _ was _ laughable. One faded feather wasn’t indicative of Crowley’s demonic status just as one silvery feather from Aziraphale might not mean that he was teetering on the brink of Falling.

“I’m afraid that very little of this is making sense right now,” said Aziraphale as he chewed on his bottom lip. “Claitiel isn’t the kind of angel to deceive, I’m sure of it. Was she mistaken? Misled? Where do error and malice intersect?”

Silence fell as they both considered the possible implications for this discovery, even Dog settled down and rested his head on his paws as if preparing for a good, long think. Adam fidgeted with Crowley’s feather, running it between his fingers absently until Aziraphale reached out for it, wanting to put it back in his wing.

Adam handed it over, his fingers releasing a split second before Aziraphale had a grip on it. The feather fell to the floor where it was pounced upon by Dog, he pinned the shaft with his paw and licked up the length of it, just once. He pulled his head away, his lip curled in disgust, and sneezed violently.

“Charming!” Aziraphale snatched the feather up from the floor and almost dropped it again. “Adam, look.”

Aziraphale passed his hand over the feather to remove the dog slobber and held it up to the light. The shaft was still white but the vane had returned to its original, perfect black.

“That’s weird,” said Adam as Dog whined at his feet. “Dog, you clever thing! Did you know what you were doing? You’re so smart!”

The excited praise buoyed Dog’s spirits enough that he didn’t seem to expect punishment.

“It’s certainly curious. I shall keep an eye on it and see what happens from here. Uh, good work, Dog,” Aziraphale offered a cautious pat to the top of Dog’s head.


	14. Fate Is Not A Factor

A number of weeks passed with little news. Aziraphale holed himself up in his library, researching and reading anything that might hold an answer. Crowley parted ways with Anathema and Newt, promising that it was temporary but that he needed some time alone. Adam and The Them carried on much as they had before; playing outside when the weather allowed, playing at Brian’s house when it didn’t, waiting for  _ something _ to happen though none of them could say what.

Being able to read uninterrupted by potential customers was a pleasure that Aziraphale had nearly forgotten after more than 200 years of part-time rare book dealing. He devoured books at a rate previously considered impossible, searching for any kind of clue about what had happened with Crowley’s feather or how Heaven would know about it. When the information came, it took a most unexpected form.

Having exhausted his personal collection some time ago, Aziraphale had taken to requesting books through his local library. He was walking to collect his latest selection when he became aware of someone following him. As an angel, it took a lot to worry him; as it happened, this scenario ticked all his boxes because the thing following him was certainly not human. Celestial energy nudged at him, testing his defences and putting him on alert. Whoever it was, they wanted him to know that they were there so either it was a psychological power move, or they meant no harm and were just socially clumsy. After the past few years, Aziraphale wasn’t prepared to take any chances. He walked past the library, subtly speeding up his steps until he was completely clear of the village and the potential for human casualties was reduced to almost zero, should the encounter turn nasty. He spun on the ball of his left foot to face his pursuer.

“Claitiel!” he exclaimed, not shifting his stance. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, showing up here after what you’ve done.”

To his surprise, she looks ashamed. It’s not an expression that he had ever seen on another angel before.

“I know. I’ve come here in the hope that I can right some of the wrongs I’ve done you, Aziraphale. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

He considered this, snapped his fingers and sat on the bench that appeared beside him.

“Here will do as well as anywhere else,” he said, gesturing towards the seat beside him until Claitiel sat. “Now, explain yourself, if you will.”

“Around a year and a half ago, I came to Earth to meet with the demon, Crowley. I was under the impression that you were in real danger of Falling and that Crowley’s proximity to you was the cause. I promise to you that I acted in good faith. No one told me to go, I did it thinking that it was at significant risk to my own safety and position.”

Aziraphale gritted his teeth and held his tongue. He honestly couldn’t give a fig about her position or safety when compared to the pain she had inflicted upon Crowley. But, they had once been friendly and he would hear her out before telling her to shove off.

“I have recently learned that I was used, that the data I based my conclusion upon had been tampered with. Those of a higher host were manipulating me into taking the actions that I did. Aziraphale, by the friendship that we once shared, please believe me. You are at no risk of Falling, you never have been. I am so sorry for the pain I have caused you and Crowley.” Claitiel stared down at her lap where her hands lay clasped.

“How did you learn of this manipulation?” Aziraphale’s voice sounded tight, overly controlled.

She looked at him, the thin wire frames of her glasses catching the reflection of the low sun.

“Uriel told me. I don’t think they meant to, I’m not even sure they know that they were telling  _ me _ . Uriel made a joke about you to me and I responded that I didn’t think Heaven was bothering with you these days. They laughed and explained about this great prank that Gabriel had pulled on you, tearing you and Crowley apart. I put the rest together by myself.”

Of course, it would be Gabriel. Being shown up the way he had at the execution would have festered within him like a wound, Aziraphale mused.

“How can you be sure that this isn’t more trickery? You fell for it before.” He was more curt than he’d intended and the hurt showed on Claitiel’s face as she considered her answer.

“I have thought this over extensively. I don’t see how Heaven or any resident thereof would benefit from this turn of events. I did expect that you would have doubts about my trustworthiness and I wish I could do more to assuage those doubts.” She sounded genuinely remorseful.

Aziraphale turned his eyes towards the skies and sent a wordless plea for guidance. He got exactly the answer that he expected; silence.

“How did you know that Crowley would have my feather? And that it would have changed after just a few hours in his wing?” Aziraphale asked, deciding to use her answer as a weathervane indicating her truthfulness.

Claitiel took a deep breath, apparently already finding comfort in these human actions.

“You were under very close observation by Hell up until Crowley left. They are terrified of him down there and need constant reassurance that he isn’t planning to return. As soon as you gave him your feather, it started a panic and they called up to find out what we thought about it. I’m sure that I was only included on the call as part of the manipulation. I suspected that you would give him one of your feathers as we always shared an admiration for that old practice. The confirmation was helpful, though. As for how I knew what would happen, I’m sure that this was the other reason that I was the angel selected for this deception. 

“I had confessed something to Sandalphon in a moment of weakness some millennia ago,” she paused and looked pained. Aziraphale considered reaching a hand to her, recognising the flavour of her pain all too well. “Before the Great War, I had a beloved of my own. Her name is Pejaven now, she Fell with the Morning Star and the rest. I was at her side when she Fell, begging her to repent. The last thing she did was pull out a handful of her feathers and thrust them into my hands and bid me to remember her well. I watched them turn black as she disappeared. 

“I hid most of them, not wanting them to be discovered as something diabolical in Heaven, but my heart was weak and I kept one small, black feather hidden within my own. I was in the habit of pulling it out whenever I was alone which is how I noticed the colour changes. By the end of the first day, Pejaven’s black feather was looking noticeably paler. I don’t understand it, but I hoped that Crowley would believe that it was a sign of your corruption. I lied to him about it, knowing that my words alone wouldn’t be sufficient. I am so sorry.”

“I suppose that explains why you’ve come to me and not Crowley,” Aziraphale joked weakly, knowing that Crowley would have never heard her out if he even let her live long enough to draw breath.

Claitiel did not smile.

“Once I had learned the truth of the situation, I knew I had to do what I could to make it right. If Pejaven and I had been given a chance as you have, I would have killed anyone who tried to take it away.”

Aziraphale recognised that he did not have the best track record regarding who he chose to trust. Regardless, he felt such sympathy for the wretched angel before him that he couldn’t conceive of her lying to him. Even as she admitted lying to Crowley, he understood her motivation. He reached for her hands and offered her a small smile.

“Claitiel, thank you. I forgive you and bear you no ill will.”

“You  _ forgive _ me? Why? You shouldn’t!”

“I do. For your part in the hurt that has been done, I forgive you. All sins can be forgiven when there is true repentance, is that not what is written?” Aziraphale spoke kindly.

Claitiel sniffed, her eyes bright with tears.

“You are too kind. I’m sorry, I don’t know why my face is getting wet.”

Aziraphale offered her a fresh handkerchief.

“You’re crying, my dear. It can be rather distressing the first few times,” he said, gently. “Have you reached out to Pejaven at all? The lines aren’t so clearly defined these days, I hear.”

She shook her head, looking horrified at the thought. Then, her expression softened and Aziraphale knew that she was recognising the possibilities. When she had regained her composure, they walked back into the village together and chatted like the old friends they were.

Crowley turned up in Tadfield a few days before Easter. The Them were on holiday from school and, as such, were spending as much time as possible in their den, making improvements to the almost permanent structure they had devised during the rainy March weekends. Adam was trying desperately to convince Pepper that they could use glass bottles for windows without smashing them, she was either unswayed or too enthused by the thought of smashing a lot of glass for fun. Either way, Adam was distracted when Crowley found them.

“You lot planning on living out here full time, then?” Crowley asked, sticking his head around the rudimentary door frame.

A chorus of greetings and exclamations seemed to please him. Adam had noticed how Crowley always seemed genuinely delighted and shocked to be welcomed anywhere. The heavens chose that moment to open and heavy rain began to fall like a sheet.

“Get in!” Brian yelled to Crowley and Wensleydale.

Brian showed Crowley around their new, all-weather base. He was offered a seat in one of the chairs they had scrounged from various garages and sheds, Wensleydale lit the camping stove and boiled water for tea while Adam begged Crowley to talk sense into Pepper regarding their windows. For the first time since they’d built it, the roof didn’t leak. Crowley made the sort of noises that adults make when being told about their friends’ plans to build an extension or a conservatory. After careful consideration, Adam decided that this was an appropriate response.

When the rain shower ended and tea had been drunk, Pepper, Wensley, and Brian all announced that they should go home and that they would see Adam tomorrow.

“You know I don’t like it when you influence my friends like that, Crowley,” said Adam, secretly relieved that he hadn’t had to do it himself.

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck and looked guilty.

“Sorry, kid. I needed to talk to you alone before I lose my nerve.”

The thought of Crowley being nervous about anything felt wrong in Adam’s brain, like a square peg trying to fit in a round hole. Adults weren’t supposed to feel things like nerves and Crowley was about as adult-y as you could get, Adam reasoned.

“I owe you an apology, Adam.”

“You do?” Adam was confused.

“Let me get through this, OK?” Crowley took off his sunglasses and folded them away. “I owe you an apology for the way I reacted when I was here last. I’ve been-” he waved his hand vaguely, “- _ working through _ some stuff, I guess. Ugh, that feels awful to say. Anyway, I know that you are only trying to help and that it’s because you care about my happiness.” Crowley managed to keep most of the sneering derision out of his voice which Adam appreciated.

“It’s all right,” Adam started to say, Crowley cut him off.

“No, it isn’t. You’re a really smart kid and you’ve had the weight of the world on your shoulders, but you are still just a kid. I’m an eternal entity who exists outside of time. You shouldn’t have to feel like you have to help with my shit, OK? I appreciate it, I do, I just don’t want you to think that my life is any kind of reflection on you. Understand?” Crowley made solid eye contact at that as if he was willing Adam to glean some deeper meaning from his mangled words.

Adam nodded in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

“I get it. You’re a big, bad demon and you don’t need no former AntiChrist looking out for you!”

Crowley laughed at the vernacular and set his hand on Adam’s shoulder.

“Exactly. Yes.”

Things seemed to be back on track and Adam was relieved, to say the least. Now, hopefully, he would be able to get through the next ten minutes without undoing all this progress.

“Crowley, I’m going to ask you for something and I can’t tell you that I know what’s going to happen but I do have faith that it will be OK. Will you trust me?”

Crowley opened and closed his mouth several times as thoughts rose to the surface and burst, like bubbles in a thick milkshake.

“You know what? Sure, yes, I’ll trust you. What do you want?” Crowley said at last.

Adam steeled himself, expecting a fight.

“Can I see Aziraphale’s feather, please? The one you keep in your wing?”

Crowley didn’t even answer, he just reached behind him and pulled.

“Be careful with it, OK?” Crowley brought his hand round from behind his back. “What the...”

The feather in Crowley’s trembling hand was charcoal grey. Before he could panic too much about the drastic colour change, Dog jumped up, snatched the feather from Crowley’s fingers, and ran outside.

Adam and Crowley launched themselves out of their chairs and followed him out of the shack. Dog had stopped in a shallow puddle, a few metres from the door.

“Bring that back here, Dog!” Adam called, hoping that Dog knew what he was doing.

Dog dropped the feather in the puddle and bounced his front paws on it, splashing muddy water everywhere.

“You wretched, mangy, flea-bitten animal, when I get my hands on you-” Crowley lunged for Dog, his threat unfinished.

Dog leapt to one side, avoiding Crowley’s flailing arms, and plucked the feather out of the muddy puddle with careful teeth. Cocking his head, he offered it up to Crowley who stared back, struck dumb. Adam approached the pair of them slowly until he could see what Dog held in his teeth. It was muddy and in need of a preen, but the feather was white again with just the shaft a perfect, inky black. At a whine from Dog, Adam took the feather and Crowley’s elbow to lead him back into the shack.

There was enough water left for another cup of tea so Adam sat Crowley down, put Aziraphale’s feather on his lap, and focused on boiling the last of the water.

He put the mug in Crowley’s hands and sat beside him, waiting for him to talk. The feather balanced on Crowley’s knee, amplifying the tremors that ran through him. Adam wanted to tell him everything that he knew and a few things that Aziraphale offered as theories but there was no point in speaking until Crowley had worked through the shock that had gripped him.

“I don’t understand any of what just happened,” Crowley said at last.

He swallowed the tea in two large gulps and put the mug on the ground, avoiding touching the feather.

“I might be able to fill in some blanks, although why Dog did what he did, I can’t say. Is it damaged?” Adam asked.

Finally, Crowley picked it up with his fingertips and inspected it all over. He dragged it between two fingers, preening and cleaning the feather in one motion.

“It really is white. It was almost black when I plucked it out just now. Why does it keep changing?” Crowley was speaking to himself as much as Adam.

“The best theory is that your infernal energy recognises something that doesn’t belong. Instead of rejecting it, it tries to conceal it. For some reason, Dog can stabilise the process and even it out.”

Crowley’s brow creased in confusion. He looked at Dog who was licking his paws rather intently and looking for all the world like a perfectly normal mongrel.

“Wonders never cease,” he muttered to himself and then looked at Adam. “Thanks for this. I only came to apologise so, this was a bonus.”

He stood up and walked out. Although Adam chased after him, Crowley was gone before Adam reached the doorway of the shack.

“I didn’t get to tell him about Aziraphale’s news,” he said to no one in particular.


	15. The Day I Set You Free

Aziraphale had always appreciated the importance of having well-placed friends. Whether it was a fellow book dealer who might alert him to an exclusive auction, or a baker who kept one of his favourite desserts behind the counter so it would be there when Aziraphale popped in, he enjoyed having the right kind of friends. On this occasion, his well-placed friend was meeting him at a discreet location in Brighton and letting him into Heaven through a little known entrance.

“You’ll find him in his office, sulking. That’s been his habit for the past few years since, well, you know,” Claitiel ushered Aziraphale in as she whispered her information.

Aziraphale thanked her and hurried through the familiar corridors until he found himself in the large, bright, bland area that passed for a waiting area. Screwing up his courage, Aziraphale pushed open the glass doors and stormed into Gabriel’s office. The Archangel Gabriel was sat behind a desk in a featureless room, resting his chin in his hands and, as Claitiel had said, he was sulking.

“Aziraphale! What are you doing here?” Gabriel looked horrified.

Aziraphale squared his shoulders and stared Gabriel down, channelling every second of pain and heartbreak that he had experienced over the past near two years.

“You owe me an explanation, Gabriel. And, at the very least, an apology.”

Gabriel scoffed and leaned back in his chair like so many ineffective middle managers before him. His fear had disappeared, perhaps through a belief that Aziraphale only wanted words and not revenge.

“I don’t owe you a thing, traitor,” Gabriel sneered. “You should be thanking me.”

At his sides, Aziraphale’s hands clenched into fists that itched to know the feel of Gabriel’s face breaking against them.

“ _ Thanking _ you? Why?” Aziraphale was gobsmacked.

“I saved you from cavorting with that disgusting demon. You befouled yourself with its presence, allowing it to touch you, sharing space, food, resources with it.” Gabriel spat.

Aziraphale exercised an immense amount of self-control to keep his feet in one spot. His heart screamed at him to make Gabriel pay for his vile words.

“You interfered in my life, you manipulated another angel to play a part in your scheme, you have caused a great deal of hurt to myself and people I care about. What kind of angel are you that this is acceptable conduct?” Aziraphale snarled.

“Who are you to cast judgement on  _ me _ ?” Gabriel stood and thumped his palms against the desk loudly. “You freakish and unwanted outsider, you don’t belong here and you never have.”

Aziraphale gritted his teeth and held his ground.

“I am the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate. I am humanity’s sword and shield. I am Crowley’s partner. I am all these things and I judge you, Gabriel. I judge you for your actions, your thoughts, and your intentions.”

Laughter shook Gabriel’s shoulders, mocking and lacking any facsimile of mirth.

“Pathetic. You’ve always been a poor excuse for an angel. I bet the only reason that you haven’t fallen is because Hell doesn’t want you either.”

His eyes were stinging with tears that he couldn’t allow to fall. Aziraphale thought of Crowley’s face as he had walked out on their shared life, of Adam’s reaction to being abandoned by Crowley, of Newt’s obvious discomfort at Aziraphale’s tears. All these people and more had been injured by Gabriel’s petty revenge plot. Something deep inside him turned cold, spreading ice through his veins.

In a flash, Aziraphale had Gabriel pinned to the wall by his throat. Those preternatural violet eyes were wide with genuine fear and Aziraphale could feel him trembling.

“Do not think for a second that I won’t put my considerable strength to use in causing you so much pain that you would wish for the release of hellfire,” Aziraphale whispered to Gabriel. “It’s clear that any apology from you would be empty. Revenge is a motive beneath me, I won’t stoop to your level.”

Gabriel gulped, relief flooding his face even as his hands clawed at Aziraphale’s wrist to try and get free.

“You’re going to make me a promise. You’re going to swear, on your Grace, that you won’t interfere in my life or the lives of anyone I care about. That includes Claitiel, just so we’re clear.”

“What if I don’t? What if I can’t promise that?”

Aziraphale’s free hand shot into the space between realities and grabbed just above the joint of one of Gabriel’s wings, wrenching it back.

“I’m sure I’ll think of something to persuade you,” Aziraphale said in a tone much closer to his usual friendliness.

Gabriel whimpered, trying to wriggle free of Aziraphale’s grip. His wing was held fast and each movement strained the joint a little more.

“I promise! I promise! Whatever you want!” Gabriel’s hands scrabbled at the wall behind him, too panicked to access his wings.

“Say it,” said Aziraphale carefully. “Say it in full.”

“I swear on my Grace, such as it is, that I will never again interfere in your life or that of anyone you care about!” Gabriel whimpered out.

The door to the office flew open.

“Witnessed!” Claitiel exclaimed.

Aziraphale’s hands relaxed and Gabriel slumped to the floor as if all his bones had been removed at once.

“I’m sorry that this had to be such an unpleasant experience, Gabriel. You rather forced my hand.”

Confident that Gabriel wouldn’t break his oath, Aziraphale allowed Claitiel to escort him to the main entrance.

“I contacted Pejaven,” she confided in a conspiratorial whisper. “She wants to meet.”

“Oh, that’s lovely! I hope it goes very well for you, but do be careful. These are uncertain times, after all,” Aziraphale advised as he embraced his friend happily before leaving Heaven once more.

“He was the one at the airfield, right? The arrogant one?” Adam asked.

“Yes, that’s him. He was behind the whole thing. And now we know the truth about what was happening,” said Aziraphale.

They were sat in the shack in the woods, Aziraphale had homed in on the seat that Crowley had used barely a week before and held court over a rapt audience of teenagers as he recounted his confrontation with Gabriel.

“Gabriel, like  _ the _ Gabriel? The one from the nativity plays at school?” Wensleydale was always a sceptic.

“Yes, that’s the one. Nasty piece of work, it turns out.”

The Them all nodded in agreement as renewed awe settled over them at the realisation that Aziraphale had physically bested someone they knew from Christmas carols.

“Anathema has been teaching me to see auras!” Pepper said after a minute of silence. “She says I’m a natural at it.”

Adam grinned at her, pleased for a change of topic even if it was one that frustrated him.

“She’s teaching all of us, Pepper,” Brian objected.

“That’s marvellous! How kind of her. How is dear Anathema these days? What has she been up to?” Aziraphale seized the gift of a new conversational thread with both hands.

“She’s back in Tadfield with Newt. I think they got tired of travelling so much and wanted a break for a while,” said Brian.

“ _ I _ think it’s because Crowley went off again, Newt said it’s not as much fun without him there,” volunteered Pepper.

“Perhaps we should call in on them this afternoon?” Aziraphale suggested brightly.

Adam looked at him a little closer and saw the undercurrent of panic that coursed through him at the news about Crowley. He had made it clear that he didn’t want regular updates about Crowley’s activities unless it would affect him directly, Pepper’s slip-up might be the first time he had heard Crowley’s name since he and Adam had inspected his wings in February.

“Brilliant idea, Aziraphale. Then we can all show you how good we are at reading auras,” Adam put his seal of approval on the plan.

“Oh gross, Newt! Your aura is purple!” Pepper sounded thoroughly disgusted.

It was all Anathema could do to cover her mouth and try to contain her giggles.

“Is purple bad?” Newt asked, obviously bewildered.

He turned pink as Anathema leaned forward to whisper a quick interpretation in his ear.

“Pepper,” Anathema turned to face her. “Aura reading is a privilege that you must be gentle with. You shouldn’t embarrass people just because you aren’t adult enough to handle the full spectrum of humanity.”

Pepper looked down at her hands, shamefaced.

“Sorry Anathema, sorry Newt.”

Forgiveness was offered all around and the incident was forgotten as quickly as it had arisen. This group had been through too much together to hold grudges, after all, Anathema thought privately. They were all sat in the living room of Jasmine Cottage, drinking tea and sharing stories.

“Pick someone else to read now, but pick carefully!” she instructed.

Pepper and Brian focused on Wensleydale who looked as alarmed as he always did when they tried to read him. Almost too late, Anathema tracked Adam’s eye line and found him looking intently at Aziraphale.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Adam,” she said, cautiously.

Anathema had tried to read Aziraphale’s aura once before, almost four years previous. The result had been a three-day migraine and a lingering feeling of insignificance.

“I’ll be OK,” Adam said, refocusing his attention.

Still cautious from last time, Anathema didn’t make the decision to read Aziraphale lightly. She had caught glimpses of Crowley’s aura during their time together but never deliberately looked for it, still, she knew it well enough to recognise the energy surrounding Aziraphale.

“That’s odd.”

Anathema’s head whipped round to look at Adam, concerned at what had made him comment. His eyes were closed, squeezed tightly and then he relaxed to take another look.

“What are you seeing?” she asked.

Adam focused again, Anathema recognised the concentration and stillness that she had taught them all.

“It looks different to any aura I’ve seen before, it keeps moving. It’s connected to everything around him, to all of us.”

Curious, Anathema allowed herself a real look at the energy around Aziraphale. Just as Adam described, it was dancing around and reaching out to touch every living thing in the space. It was completely different to the blinding shaft of white light that had connected Aziraphale to Heaven. This energy was softer, less austere, more approachable. It was also the mirror image of Crowley’s aura. Shape, feel, and colour could change even as Anathema was observing an aura, but she’d never known a change as drastic as this. It was almost as if Aziraphale was a completely different person than he had been four years ago.

“I see it too, Adam,” Anathema tried to reassure him. “Aziraphale, do you know much about auras?”

A bewildered-looking Aziraphale clutched at the question, Anathema recognised the look of a man about to launch into a barely relevant and largely incoherent lecture about a topic he knew little about.

“Angelic auras, to be specific,” she cut off the lecture before it began.

“I can’t say that I know much about those. I can see auras when I choose to, although I don’t consider them particularly useful in much of my work. Angelic auras are just white light, any subtleties are lost to me in the reading of them,” Aziraphale admitted.

Anathema felt the shape of a thought in her mind and tried to explore it, letting it come to her gently.

“Aziraphale, can you describe Crowley’s aura to me?”

He leant forward and put his teacup and saucer on the coffee table, his elbows rested on his knees and his fingertips formed a point that pressed into his lips. He drew a deep and shuddering breath before answering.

“Crowley’s aura is blacker than black, it’s an absolute absence of colour and light. It has a border of red, angry and bloody. It feels like being dragged down, like sinking and losing control.” He was ashen when he finished, although whether it was the memory of the aura or Crowley that had so affected him, Anathema didn’t like to guess.

She glanced at Adam who was looking between her and Aziraphale, his mouth half-open with unasked questions.

“When did you last look?”

Aziraphale sighed, somewhat sadly.

“Rome, I think. What was that, 44, 46 AD? That was the last time I could bear to look.”

“Anathema?” Adam’s voice wavered in his uncertainty.

“I’ve seen Crowley’s aura plenty of times while he was travelling with us, never directly, but glimpses of it,” Anathema began, choosing her words carefully. “That’s not what his aura looks like at all, at least not now. It looks just like yours, reaching out to touch everything around it, playful, gentle.”

Watching Aziraphale absorb this information was an experience. His face visibly struggled to remain passive as a torrent of thoughts and feelings crashed through his brain. Anathema was about to suggest that the kids went home when Aziraphale rallied. He sat up straight and tugged on the hem of his waistcoat.

“That is rather a mystery, isn’t it? You don’t look at something for nearly 2000 years and it ups and changes on you,” he laughed a hollow and unconvincing laugh.

Anathema opened her mouth to reassure him that he couldn’t have known but Adam jumped in, voicing the conclusion that she was privately developing.

“I don’t think you’re an angel anymore,” Adam said, bluntly. Aziraphale winced in such obvious distress that Anathema felt it in her gut. “I mean, you’re still an  _ angel _ , you just aren’t an angel of Heaven anymore. You’re more like an angel of Earth. And Crowley is a demon of Earth. You’re part of the balance, yeah?”

“Well,” Anathema jumped in to try and rescue Adam. “I wouldn’t go sticking your arm in any hellfire to test it, but I think Adam might be right.”

Aziraphale gave a tight little smile.

“It really is a shame that Crowley isn’t here. It would be much easier to test your hypothesis with him than me. Perhaps you could ask him to try walking on consecrated ground when you next speak?”

Anathema closed her eyes and willed everyone else to refrain from giving the nervous side glances that she just knew they were exchanging beyond her eyelids.

“What? What is it?” Aziraphale’s voice pitched up with the beginning of panic. “What’s happened to Crowley?”

“Nothing, he’s fine,” Newt soothed and Anathema felt a flush of love for him. She opened her eyes again to see Newt crossing the room to sit beside Aziraphale. “He’s just not exactly talking to any of us very much right now.”

“At all,” Brian added and then immediately hissed in pain from a well-aimed kick to the shins from Pepper. “Well, he isn’t!”

“Since when? When did he cut contact?”

Anathema did usher The Them out at that, Aziraphale didn’t need the teenage peanut gallery for this emotional exchange. She still didn’t completely trust his self-control, not where Crowley was involved and it seemed safer to get the children away.

“Adam saw him last just before Easter. You asked us not to give you any details you didn’t explicitly request or we would have told you,” Newt was placating Aziraphale as best he could when Anathema returned.

“I see, you were right to do so.”

Anathema had never seen Aziraphale so bereft, having not been around Tadfield much during the aftermath of Crowley’s first disappearance. Something about the depth of his grief grabbed at her and dragged her down with him. Tucking her skirts around her, Anathema sat at Aziraphale’s feet and laid a hand on his knee, willing her sympathy and empathy to reach out to him.

“This isn’t like last time. He told us that he needed some time to himself and he’s been checking in whenever he moves. He sends Adam and me an email every time he travels, partly to keep us from worrying and, I think, partly to keep us from trying to find him.”

Aziraphale nodded at her, his bottom lip held tense to keep from trembling.

“So, he’s OK?”

“He’s as well as can be expected, considering everything you two have been through. He’s safe, we can reach him, he’ll let us know when he wants to talk again,” Anathema stroked Aziraphale’s knee as she spoke.

“If- Do you- When- Bother! This is so complicated. Would you tell him that I miss him? Tell him that I’m not going to Fall and that his home is waiting for him whenever he wants it?” Aziraphale’s eyes were brimming with tears.

“Of course, Aziraphale. Of course, we will.”

Anathema’s heart felt like it might break in two at the brave, hopeful smile he offered them both.

“I mustn’t keep you any longer. Thank you so much for your hospitality, it’s been wonderful to see you both.”

Aziraphale stood, straightened his bow tie, smoothed the lapels of his jacket and took hold of the hem of his waistcoat. A firm tug downwards was accompanied by the sound of tearing cloth. All three of them looked down to see Aziraphale’s fingers poking through the ruined material of his waistcoat.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, flatly. “That is an embuggerance.”

Anathema started to reach for the tattered fabric, looking to Newt to see if he could repair it. He was already reaching for the sewing kit when Aziraphale brushed them both off.

“Don’t fuss, please. It’s well past time that I threw this ratty thing out. Thank you, I’ll see myself out.”

Aziraphale walked to the door and was gone before either Newt or Anathema could say another word.


	16. There's You In Everything I Do

Crowley was hurting worse than ever. He had been alone for most of his time on Earth but now he was lonely as well. He’d landed in Cape Town and took a cab to the Belmond Mount Nelson Hotel where a suite had been waiting for him despite the convention having booked up every room months ago.

Reluctantly, Crowley pulled his phone out of his pocket and went to compose an email. Along with the usual unread responses to his check-in messages, there was an email sent two days previous from Anathema. It had the subject line: _Regarding Aziraphale._ There was a pinch in his chest, a new pain to add to his catalogue of misery. Crowley gritted his teeth and opened the email, cursing his weakness the whole time.

“First things first, Adam and I are certain that you and Aziraphale have undergone some kind of alignment shift. The easiest test would be to see if consecrated ground still harms you as that doesn’t risk the death of either of you. If we’re right, then Aziraphale can’t Fall and you’re both outside of the reach of Heaven and Hell.”

Crowley didn’t wait to read any more. He dropped his phone and was out of his suite before it hit the floor.

Through Cape Town streets wet with rain, Crowley sprinted towards the nearest church he knew of, the Holy Trinity Anglican church to the south-east of his hotel. He paused at the door, his hand held out towards the handle; if Adam and Anathema were right about this then the implications were enormous. Crowley almost didn’t want to know the answer, didn’t want to have to face the idea that he had been tricked and hurt Aziraphale for nothing. Swearing under his breath, Crowley threw himself at the door and stumbled through as it swung open.

He waited, focusing on his feet and expecting the telltale burn of holiness rejecting him. When nothing came, he ventured further into the church towards the altar. He touched icons of the crucifixion and walked all the way up to the altar with no pain.

“Hey! What are you doing back there?” a voice called out from the door.

Crowley span to see a middle-aged man, tanned to leather and lined by countless frowns. Crowley could smell the identity of the priest from the far end of the church.

“You,” he stalked back up the central aisle, advancing on the man. “Tell me, is this consecrated ground?”

The man sputtered in indignation and confusion.

“It’s a simple question. Has this land been consecrated or not?” Crowley had hold of the man’s shirt front and was shaking him.

“I don’t know! I’m a locum! It should be but I can’t say! Please don’t hurt me!”

Crowley dropped him and left the church without a backwards glance. Once on the pavement, he reached out over the neighbourhood until he found what he was looking for: Catholics.

As fast as he could manage without causing too much alarm, Crowley ran toward St Mary’s Cathedral, leapt over the metal railing at the side and practically flew through the doors. Several people were in the pews and, as one, they turned to look at him. He flicked their attention away, too invested to bother about answering annoying human questions.

Forcing himself to breathe and focus, Crowley fought to keep his feet flat on the floor ignoring the automatic desire to touch it as little as possible. There was no burning, no stinging, nothing out of the ordinary at all. He needed to be sure, there had to be no doubt. Crowley sat in a pew to pull off his boots and socks before gingerly lowering his bare feet to the floor. Again, nothing except cool stone.

There was still doubt, Catholics love blessing and consecrating everything they can get their hands on, but Crowley wasn’t familiar enough with Cape Town to know the history of the site. He wrestled his socks and boots back onto his feet and returned to the foyer where an angel statue stood. Crowley didn’t look at its face.

About two inches of holy water sat in a marble bowl held in the hands of the stone angel. A woman walked past and dipped her fingertips into it, crossing herself before entering the church proper. This was a stupid, risky, foolhardy move, but Crowley didn’t know how else to test the theory, how else to be sure. He reached into his pocket for the handkerchief that he knew would be there and, very carefully, dipped the corner into the water.

His heart was racing in his chest, every neuron in his skull was screaming at him to stop, his muscles resisted the orders he sent them. Slowly, gradually, painstakingly, Crowley brought the damp corner of the handkerchief to his other hand and touched it to the tip of his little finger.

Nothing happened, not even a tingle.

Crowley’s jaw fell open in shock. Emboldened, he dipped the handkerchief again and swiped wetness across the back of his hand. Still nothing. He stared at the trail of water on his skin, doing nothing except making his hand a bit cold. Impulsively, he sank his whole hand into the bowl and laughed out loud as absolutely nothing happened.

A man in a black cassock came to stand beside Crowley and cleared his throat. Crowley snatched his hand out of the water and wiped it on his jeans.

“That’s not traditionally how one might use holy water,” the priest said with a wry smile.

“Heh, no, I bet it isn’t,” Crowley was too giddy to hide his joy. “It _is_ holy water, right? Not holding back the good stuff?”

The priest looked amused before he closed his eyes and muttered a prayer, making the sign of the cross above the water with his hand.

“If it wasn’t before, it definitely is now.”

Crowley looked into the bowl and hesitated. The priest dipped his fingers in to wet them and flicked them at Crowley’s face. He flinched and cowered.

“Be careful! For Someone’s sake! You can’t just flick holy water at someone you don’t know!” Crowley ranted as he straightened up.

Water ran down his sunglasses, beaded on his cheeks, clung to his hair.

“Does that help with your dilemma?” the priest asked, ignoring Crowley’s spluttering.

Running one hand through his hair and the other over his cheeks, Crowley tried to understand what had just happened.

“Uh, yeah. Yes, it does.” He waited for the priest to leave before pulling his hand from his hair and staring into his palm. A blossom of hellfire ignited and danced for a few seconds before he closed his fingers and smothered it. “This makes things very interesting.”

  
  


Back in his suite, Crowley picked up his phone from the floor and replied to the email from Anathema.

“Just sauntered all over consecrated ground and took a shower in holy water. Can still summon hellfire. No idea what’s going on but it looks like you two are right. I’m in South Africa until further notice.”

Crowley hit send and flopped back on the bed, tossing his phone up onto the pillows above his head. As an afterthought, he waved his hand towards the phone and set up a filter to delete all incoming emails; he knew they’d respond, try to draw him back into conversations and sharing and openness and he just wasn’t done being angry at them yet.

Stretched out on the bed and staring at the ceiling, Crowley turned over the meaning of what had just happened. In his core, Crowley was still a demon. He was sure of that, he liked being a bastard and making people miserable when he could. He could still summon hellfire at will, perform demonic miracles, his wings were still there when he felt for them.

Thinking of his wings brought the memory of Aziraphale’s white feather to the forefront of his mind. It was still tucked into his wing although he no longer felt it unless it moved. Wearing something for nearly two years can make it practically unnoticeable.

Aziraphale.

Two years of wearing his heartbreak had done nothing to lessen _that_ pain; his various good deeds and honourable temptations had merely dulled the edge of the blade that tormented him. And now it appeared that all of this had been in vain. He’d destroyed the happiness he had found with Aziraphale for nothing. Heaven had tricked him, used him, and he hadn’t even given Aziraphale the option of making his own choice.

Crowley rolled onto his face and screamed into the bed, muffling his anguish and self-loathing with high thread count sheets. He’d hurt Aziraphale so much, spread that hurt to everyone they knew, been selfish and stupid and stubborn. Aziraphale must hate him, he must be so miserable having all his worst fears about Crowley confirmed so fully.

If Aziraphale wanted him back he would have found a way to tell him, Crowley reasoned. Too much damage had been done, clearly. Even with the knowledge that Aziraphale couldn’t Fall, that they truly were safe, Aziraphale hadn’t reached out to him. They had the whole picture now, all the blanks had been filled in, and Aziraphale didn’t want him. That’s all there was to it, Crowley decided.

Crowley’s coping habits, such as they were, had been ingrained enough by this point that the plunge back into his darkest feelings barely impacted his day-to-day dealings. He was more chaotic, less prone to gentleness, more drunk, less likely to exchange a friendly word with a stranger. In short, he withdrew back into the armour that had got him through 6000 years of anxiety and loneliness. And naps, he had a lot of naps.

Anathema relayed the response that her email had received, even letting Aziraphale read it himself when he couldn’t keep a lid on his disbelief. Crowley was immune to holy water. Aziraphale couldn’t Fall. They were realigned with humanity. And Crowley had ignored Aziraphale’s plea to come home.

Adam’s 15 th birthday found The Them in their usual spot in the woods, enjoying the late August warmth and refusing to talk about going back to school for their final year together. Aziraphale had turned up just after lunchtime with a gift for Adam and assorted books for Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale so they wouldn’t make sad faces at him for being left out. The heat had dissuaded the teenagers from carrying out much in the way of building work over the summer but the shack was still standing, Aziraphale noted with some satisfaction. He had given Wensleydale a book on ancient methods of construction and food preservation in the hopes that he might try to develop the shack into something of a project.

Anathema and Newt arrived shortly after Aziraphale, much to Adam’s surprise.

“I haven’t seen you on my actual birthday since, well, since ever!”

Anathema handed over a gift-wrapped box with a smile.

“We’re not normally in Tadfield this long,” she explained.

“Plus, you know Crowley always liked to avoid the actual day, just in case-” an elbow in the ribs stopped Newt mid-flow and he blushed with embarrassment. “Ah, sorry Aziraphale.”

“It’s quite all right,” Aziraphale said through a tight-lipped smile.

“I’m  _ roasting _ out here,” complained Pepper. “This summer is ridiculous.”

Anathema pointed out that they were in direct sunlight, and perhaps they would be better off moving to the shade around the other side of the shack. Newt and Brian fetched a few of the chairs out although most of the group elected to sprawl on the cool, soft grass.

“Much better,” Pepper sighed as Aziraphale summoned a little breeze to keep the air moving.

Since the demise of his beloved waistcoat, Aziraphale had tried out a number of new looks to see what he liked. Comfort, reliability, respectability, and consistency were his main requirements for outfits. Changes made him uneasy in ways he couldn’t articulate and not having a steady wardrobe had been trying, to say the least. For the past week, he had been wearing a white shirt, light tan trousers, and suspenders made in his personal tartan. In deference to the weather, his jacket was laying over the back of a chair and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Even the collar of his shirt was open and his bow tie had been left at home. With the suspenders, the bow tie became a bit too much of a good thing, Anathema had assured him.

It was a pleasant day, in pleasant company, and the pain of Crowley’s rejection had merely added a fresh twist to the constant suffering that he experienced. It was becoming easier to pretend that he was doing well. He had thrown himself into caring for the garden after he and Newt had cleared it of weeds and overgrowth. It was nothing compared to the verdant glory that it  _ had _ been, but it was pretty and it was home. Perhaps, next summer, Aziraphale might even be strong enough to spend time in it for pleasure instead of just for toil.

“Helloooo?”

An all too familiar voice startled Aziraphale out of his revery. He sat up in his chair, suddenly ram-rod straight and panicking.

“We’re round here!” Adam called out.

Aziraphale didn’t know if he hadn’t thought about what he was doing, if he didn’t care, or if this was some sick joke. Before he could organise his thoughts, Crowley strolled around the side of the shack with an easy smile on his gorgeous face and his sunglasses tucked into the neck of his t-shirt.

Aziraphale’s mouth went dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth as he opened it to say something, anything. It was the first time he’d seen Crowley in a little over two years and he felt frozen to the spot.

The moment that Crowley spotted Aziraphale, his face contorted into a mask of horror. He dropped the gifts that had been in his hands and span on the ball of his foot to bolt away. To Aziraphale, it felt like slow motion, seeing the being he loved more than any other be so disgusted by his presence that he had to sprint away.

In desperation, Aziraphale acted on instinct and chased after him.


	17. From Tonight Until The End Of Time

Crowley had told himself that, no matter what happened with the humans, he wouldn’t disappear completely again. That meant checking in when he changed country or if he’d been silent for over a month, it meant at least a card on their birthdays, and it meant making an appearance for Adam’s birthday. They had proven all too well how prone to worry humans could be and, well, he didn’t want any more pain on his conscience from people he cared about. Once this lot died off, he had thought rather stubbornly, he wouldn’t even learn another human’s name for at least a century. It was like getting emotionally attached to a mayfly.

Two days before Adam’s birthday, Crowley took a room in a hotel in Oxford, left the Bentley in the car park whilst giving all the other cars a stern, meaningful look, and let himself blackout for the night.

He awoke later than he had intended and got ready to leave in a bit of a fluster. Having barely spoken to Anathema since January and Adam since April, he was feeling unsettled, a touch out of sorts. The Bentley made excellent time to Tadfield and the warm weather did a lot to lift Crowley’s spirits on the drive. There was nothing like speeding along in his beautiful car, ignoring traffic rules, feeling the wind stream through the windows; it really blew the cobwebs out.

By the time he pulled up at the gate that separated the road from the footpath into the woods, Crowley was feeling almost happy.

With Adam’s birthday gifts tucked under one arm, Crowley wandered into the woods along the path he’d taken so many times before. There was never any question of where he would find The Them; if he hadn’t seen them by the time he parked the car, then they were in the woods. In the shade of the trees, Crowley pulled off his sunglasses and tucked them into the neck of his shirt.

The usual spot looked deserted, but Crowley could hear voices coming from nearby.

“Helloooo?” he called out.

“We’re round here!” came Adam’s response from behind the shack.

Crowley headed towards the voice, feeling lighter than he had in a while and resolving to consider thinking about possibly allowing the humans to spend time with him again. He rounded the corner and saw The Them sprawled on the grass, Anathema sitting in a chair making a daisy chain with flowers that Newt handed to her from his patch of grass, and Aziraphale looking relaxed and dreamy.

His heart stopped and his lungs collapsed inside him. Aziraphale turned his head to look at him with an expression of such hurt and anger that Crowley felt disgusted with himself for standing before him. Confused and scared, Crowley panicked. Aziraphale knew that Crowley always came the day before or the day after Adam’s birthday, he let Aziraphale have the actual day as one of the small ways he could admit his wrongdoing in the aftermath of their split. He dropped the gifts and turned to run back to get away, back to the car, anywhere that was away from Aziraphale’s awful expression and the pain it caused.

Dipping into his power, Crowley closed the distance between the shack and his car much quicker than should have been possible. He was behind the wheel and starting the engine before he had a chance to draw breath. The lane was narrow and the Bentley long, so turning around took a little effort but Crowley was desperate. He was just about to floor the accelerator when the air shifted around him and something landed heavily in the road in front of him.

The whole world looked white for an instant as Crowley’s eyes adjusted to the brightness. The outline of wings slowly came into focus with Aziraphale in the centre, looking furious. Crowley stared, utterly bewildered at this development.

In his daze of half-formed thoughts, Crowley found one point to focus on. In Aziraphale’s perfectly white wings, there was one dark feather. Not dark, but black. Crowley’s feather. He turned the engine off.

The world returned in a flash and Aziraphale was banging on the window.

“Crowley, please get out of the car. Please, Crowley, please. Don’t leave, not again.”

Aziraphale was crying. Why was Aziraphale crying? Nothing was making sense but Aziraphale wanted him to stay and he was wearing Crowley’s feather and that seemed to be more important than leaving. Crowley opened the door, giving Aziraphale a chance to step around it. He unfolded his legs and briefly wondered if they would be able to support him if he tried to stand.

Aziraphale stood just out of reach, worrying at his ring and crying openly. That was wrong, Aziraphale shouldn’t be crying. Crowley got to his feet and took a step towards Aziraphale, expecting him to flinch away. He looked hopeful, desperate, and so vulnerable, Crowley opened his arms and wrapped Aziraphale in them.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Fuck, angel, I’m so sorry,” Crowley sobbed into Aziraphale’s hair.

Aziraphale’s arms tightened around Crowley’s waist and tears soaked into the fabric of Crowley’s shirt.

“Don’t go, don’t go. Stay, stay, stay, please. Crowley, stay.” Aziraphale’s voice broke with every other word but he held fast to Crowley.

“I won’t go. I’m here,” Crowley tried to breathe normally to comfort Aziraphale as he needed.

A noise at the gate made him turn. Adam and Pepper had collided with it in their eagerness to catch up to Crowley and Aziraphale. Behind them, Brian, Wensley, Anathema, and Newt were catching up.

“I don’t think we need an audience for this,” Crowley grumbled, wanting to protect Aziraphale from the scrutiny of their friends.

“Here!” Anathema threw a bunch of keys at Crowley. “Use Jasmine Cottage, we can stay here until you come back.”

The benefits of having friendships like this were slowly coming back to Crowley as he gave her a smile of thanks.

“We’ll be back before too long, promise.”

Crowley walked Aziraphale around the car and opened the door for him like he always had. For a moment, everything had a veneer of normality over it, as if nothing had ever gone wrong. As soon as Crowley got back into the car, the illusion shattered with a single choked sob from Aziraphale.

He started the car and drove them to Jasmine Cottage in relative silence, not knowing how to pick between the elephants crowding them. Although he had the keys, Crowley just pushed the door open for Aziraphale and followed him inside. As soon as the front door closed behind them, Aziraphale pulled Crowley back into a hug so tight that it crushed his ribs.

“Do you have any idea how much I have missed you?” Aziraphale asked, husky-voiced and snuffly.

“I am so, so sorry. I have missed you every second of every day since I left,” Crowley paused for a pained breath. “Aziraphale, I know that I can’t make it right, I know I fucked us up, but please tell me that there’s hope.”

The chuckle that Aziraphale gave in response was a shock that Crowley didn’t know how to process.

“I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

“Oh, angel. There’s hope. Now we’re here, there’s more hope than I dared dream.”

Crowley buried his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and held him as close as he could, taking the comfort that was always freely given in Aziraphale’s presence.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” Aziraphale whispered against Crowley’s neck.

“Me? You’re the one here on the wrong day, angel.”

Crowley let Aziraphale disentangle their arms a little so he could make eye contact.

“Today is Adam’s birthday, Crowley. You never showed up yesterday.”

He must have looked pale or faint, because Aziraphale practically dragged him to the living room then, directing him to sit on the flowery sofa. Crowley checked the date on his watch, confused.

“I knew I’d overslept a bit, but a whole day? Doesn’t that feel just a bit, you know, ineffable?” Crowley’s head was starting to hurt.

Aziraphale glanced up, giving the impression of looking far beyond the low ceiling.

“Yes, well. Perhaps the less said about that the better. I rather think that we’ve got more pressing matters to discuss.”

There was an edge in Aziraphale’s voice that sliced right to the core of Crowley, he must have flinched because Aziraphale was reaching for him immediately.

These gentle touches, affectionate gestures, Crowley had never really got used to them before he’d left and now they were overwhelming. He wanted them, he wanted Aziraphale to touch every inch of him, but he was also nervous and flighty, worried about doing the wrong thing. In the way that he always did, Aziraphale calmed him with a look that said they were going to be OK. Crowley fell forward into a kiss that he’d been waiting to give for more than two years.

Aziraphale responded as he always had, warmly and openly, with his arms winding around Crowley’s neck to hold them together.

“I love you, Aziraphale. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Oh, Crowley, you are an idiot. You’re my idiot. I love you so much, of course, I forgive you.”

With that hurdle cleared, it would be lovely to think that the rest of the afternoon was smooth sailing. Life is rarely that kind.

For almost three hours, Crowley and Aziraphale held each other’s hands on that flowery sofa, looked into each other's watery eyes, and talked through all the hurt and misunderstandings of their separation. Crowley learned about Claitiel’s part in the scheme and also Aziraphale’s return to Heaven. In turn, Crowley explained for the first time since they had known each other how it had felt to Fall and how he had been plunged back into those feelings when he imagined Aziraphale going through it.

Crowley gave his very favourable opinion on Aziraphale’s outfit and promised to try teaching him how to summon hellfire. Aziraphale tried to prepare Crowley for the state of his garden and then had to talk Crowley through a mild panic attack at the thought of going home; the one thing he’d never let himself imagine.

“Crowley, my love, I’m sure that we will talk this to death over the rest of our eternity together,” Aziraphale said as he snuggled into Crowley’s side. “But I have one more pressing question for now. Why didn’t you come home when I asked you to?”

Crowley’s brow creased as he tried to think of any occasion that might have included Aziraphale asking such a thing and being rejected.

“You never asked, angel.”

Aziraphale chewed his bottom lip.

“You were in South Africa. Anathema sent you an email about our alignment shift and she included a message from me but you didn’t answer that part.”

Crowley smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand.

“I could have come home in June? Are you serious? I didn’t read the whole email, I ran off to test the theory and when I got back to my room I was so messed up thinking about how I’d put you through all this for nothing. I didn’t read it.”

Aziraphale’s presence was warm and reassuring against his side but Crowley still felt like a prize tit. Too impulsive and self-punishing for his own good. Before he could apologise or curse himself further, Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s jaw.

“Don’t dwell on it. It can’t be changed now.”

Feeling about a tonne lighter, Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand as they walked back to the woods to return Anathema’s keys and give the all-clear. It was easy to tell that that they had been the main topic of conversation since disappearing off to Jasmine Cottage, but Crowley found that he really didn’t mind all that much. Anathema had obviously drilled everyone on the appropriate responses. Aziraphale rubbed his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles as he thanked Anathema and Newt for the use of their home and apologised for making such a scene. Crowley was so full of love that he might burst from it, just watching Aziraphale speak and blush prettily.

They made their excuses to a round of scoffs and insistence that they leave immediately. No one expected them to have resolved all the burrs and barbs of their separation during one conversation, they were assured as they took their leave. Adam made them promise to visit on the old schedule again, together again. Crowley couldn’t stop smiling at the thought.

Having Aziraphale back in the Bentley, driving towards their home, it was heavenly. Crowley could almost believe that the past two years hadn’t happened, betrayed only by the gnawing remnants of guilt in his heart. It was better, though. It was easing, they would be okay.

The house was as he remembered, as homely and welcoming as it had ever been. Crowley kissed Aziraphale on the threshold, in the kitchen, in the library, and once more in the garden. Aziraphale had anxiously opened the french doors to lead Crowley into the garden, stammering excuses for the poor state it was in. Crowley had no idea what he was talking about; the garden was glorious and filled with love. He felt as though he was standing in a physical cocoon of Aziraphale’s love for him.

If, over the weeks that followed, sometimes Aziraphale would forget to set out two wine glasses in the evening, or Crowley would hover in doorways until Aziraphale invited him in, or they butted heads about whether the house was too warm or too cold, there was such a fog of mutual love and relief that they couldn’t really be upset about it. When Crowley laid his head in Aziraphale’s lap one evening, the world was set to rights again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Raspberry and Chocolate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23206573) by [MovesLikeBucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky)




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